


Fortune's Favorite

by Iolaire02



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Female Harry Potter, Memory Loss, No Beta, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Original Character, Reincarnation, Temporary Character Death, minimal plot, slightly more plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26394499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolaire02/pseuds/Iolaire02
Summary: Haven Potter dies at age sixteen on 30 July 1997.Zena Katana Sinclair is born on 31 December 1997.In 2004, Zena meets a man she's known for five years. He doesn't recognize her, and it's because they've never met.So why is she starting to remember things about him - and herself - when she's never had the chance to learn them, let alone forget them?
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is yet another story I don't have finished (I'm so sorry); I don't expect it to be very long, but we'll see where it goes.
> 
> Also this is minimally tagged and has no rating or warnings. I don't know where it's going yet, so I'm not sure what to do for those yet. Consider those (and possibly the title, we'll see) subject to change.
> 
> Enjoy?

_Those who have seen darkness shine in the night,_

_Those who know weakness don’t go down without a fight,_

_Those whose tears sting day after day,_

_Those whose pain will make them pay,_

_They are the only ones who know:_

_Fortune favors the bold,_

_Triumph tries men’s souls,_

_Love labors in our bones,_

_Wisdom lurks beneath our eyes,_

_Glory guilds a woman’s smile,_

_Laughter laces through their hearts,_

_We lie in wait for life to start._

* * *

Some days, she remembers things she knows she’s never learned. Some days, she is walking through the streets with her parents and brother, and she’ll see someone she’s never met, and she’ll _know_ things about them.

She starts remembering things when she’s seven. It’s December thirty-first, and her birthday, and she and her mother are walking through London. The cobblestone roads here are different from the ones in Orkney. They are made of round stones rather than the rectangular ones that line the streets back home. They shine like onyx against the piles of snow that have been pushed up against the pavement, and the places on the street where the snow has melted are wet, like they’ve been freshly rained on. The lights from the lampposts reflect onto the dark stone in pools that ripple when they’re disrupted by puddles of water.

She is wearing a red coat, made of wool and buttoned up to her chin. Her gloved hand is held in her mother’s, who is moving quickly through the throngs of people that line the avenue. It is New Year’s Eve, and she cannot think of why there are so many people out, especially this late, when the sun has hidden itself below the horizon for hours, and the negligible amount warmth it did offer when it was still sitting high in the sky has long since been leached from the air.

“Stop dawdling, Zena,” her mother tells her sharply, tugging on her hand so that she is forced to quicken her pace to keep up. “I want to get back home; your father will be wondering where we are.”

“We’re getting eggnog and bourbon,” Zena tells her. Surely her mother knows this already. After all, she had been the one to volunteer to go out and buy it.

“I know, darling,” Mummy replies. “I’m just tired. It’s a bit nippy out, and it’s been a long day. You know how Nan and Pops get to me.”

Zena twists her neck to look up at her, and pats her hand. “I know, Mummy. Nan and Pops don’t like you. But Daddy does. Daddy loves you.”

Mummy breathes out a laugh. “I should be the one comforting you, darling, not the other way around. And I know Daddy loves me. He loves you, too. And Zyan.” The wind catches her hair and whips it around her face; she slips her hand from Zena’s and smooths it over the straight dark strands to calm them, and does the same to Zena’s loose strands.

Zena offers her mother a pearly smile and reaches to take her hand again. A tall man in a dark trench coat, wearing thick-soled boots, gloves, a warm-looking hat, and a silver and green scarf walks briskly past them. He misjudges the distance between himself and Zena, and bumps into her.

He has already turned around to help steady her when she stumbles. His face (she remembers when his sandy hair was all unruly curls, when his jawline was not so sharp, when his brown eyes were laughing at Percy and Oliver from across the Great Hall) is a study of apologetic concern. There are more lines written there than she remembers (he is just as handsome as he’s been since the day they met in Flourish and Blotts), and he looks like he’s as old as her mother is. “M- _God_ ,” he says, though she knows he was going to say _Merlin,_ “I’m so sorry, really. I wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you alright, kid?”

“I’m fine, Cassius,” she tells him, because of course she is. She can handle being walked into, even if he is taller and broader than she remembers him being.

He looks at her strangely. “How did you…?” he trails off, shaking his head. “Good. I’m glad you’re okay. Have a good night.” He lifts his hand in a brief farewell, turns around, and continues walking.

“How did you know that man, Zena?” Mummy asks, staring after him.

“What do you mean, Mummy? I’ve known Cassius for five years. We met in Flourish and Blotts before my first year, and we’ve been friends since then,” Zena tells her matter-of-factly.

“But you can’t have been!” Mummy tells her. 

Zena looks at her curiously. “Why not?”

“Zena, darling, you were only two five years ago. He’s at least my age, and I’ve never seen him in my life!”

Zena frowns. “But… we _have_ been friends for five years. I _know_ him. I _know_ him, Mummy.”

Mummy shakes her head. “But he doesn’t know you, darling.”

She looks away. “It’s not safe to stand in the middle of the street, Mummy.”

Mummy sighs and takes hold of her hand again. They reach the other side of the street and make their way back to Nan and Pops’ house.

Mummy turns the knob of the front door, and it swings open. The inside of the house is warm and cozy; it smells like woodsmoke and cinnamon, and the carpet beneath Zena’s socked feet is so plush that she sinks down into it every time she takes a step. She stuffs her gloves into her pockets, unbuttons her coat and gives it to Mummy to hang up, puts her wet boots on the mat to dry, and plods into the sitting room, where Daddy has Zyan lying sleepily against his chest. He sits in the recliner across from the chaise that Nan and Pops have settled into.

They are chatting quietly amongst themselves; Daddy is stroking Zyan’s fuzzy head, Pops has his cigar balanced delicately between his fingers, smoke curling lazily off of it. Nan’s got her curlers settled neatly into her silver-streaked red hair, and she’s swirling a fragile-looking glass of red anti-clockwise, the movements so steady that it’s no surprise that not even a single drop has found its way to the cream-coloured carpeting.

Zena wanders into the room, making sure that she doesn’t bump into the table holding Nan’s prized vase. Besides the vase, there is no color in Nan and Pops’ sitting room; it is all cream-hued fabrics and dark woods. Even the wall-paneling is only a shade or two darker than the carpet, and the crackling fireplace is lined with equally pale stones. She settles onto the ottoman between the recliner and the chaise and fiddles with her dark hair until Mummy enters, carrying an ornate silver tray in her hands.

On the tray are five mugs, all of them with steaming eggnog inside. Next to the mugs is a shapley glass bottle filled with amber liquid. Mummy hands the mugs out; one each for Nan - who has finished her wine - and Pops and Daddy, one for Zena, and one for herself. She unscrews the bottle and offers it to the adults, who all nod. A tiny splash of the bourbon goes into each of their mugs. She does not offer any to Zena, who is used to such exclusion, and takes a sip of her eggnog.

It is warm and creamy and sweet, and though it tastes nothing at all like butterbeer, it still reminds her of it; perhaps it is the way a single sip warms her down to her toes. She shivers pleasantly, and takes another sip.

It doesn’t take long for her to finish her mug, and when she does, she feels warm and heavy. She yawns. “G’night, Mummy. Night, Daddy.” She hugs Nan and Pops goodnight, because they would rather have the physical reminder over the verbal one, and heads up to bed.

It is as she is drifting off to sleep that she remembers. “Happy birthday, Tom,” she tells the darkness, quite certain that Tom won’t appreciate her words in the slightest.

She does not realise until the next morning that she’s never met anyone named Tom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait; I got stuck on this one, so I skipped ahead to chapter five, which is an interlude and therefore has very little to do with Zena. Chapter five is also why the rating is now teen.
> 
> A couple of things: this is not/will not be compliant with The Butterfly Effect, and while it is compliant with Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, it is not compliant with Crimes of Grindelwald, which - while aesthetically pleasing - was BS, so I'm ignoring everything about it.
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy!

_There is something like magic in memories,_

_And something like pain in “can’t you sees?”_

_There is a moment in life that you realize_

_The world will never bare itself to your naked eyes._

_And there will be a day when you finally understand_

_There is more to the earth than sea and dry land._

_And on that day, be courageous and bold,_

_For even memories do not glitter like gold._

* * *

Zena opens the door nearly four and a half years later and says - with some surprise - “Professor McGonagall!”

McGonagall, whose dark hair has just begun to show silver streaks, is wearing the same double-breasted tartan skirt-suit and emerald-hued overcoat she’d worn the first time she’d come to talk about Hogwarts. She even has an envelope in her hand, and though this time it is inscribed with purple pigment, the seal - a crest split into four parts, emblazoned with a lion, eagle, badger, and snake - remains the same.

“Miss Sinclair,” McGonagall says, looking unusually bewildered. “Were you… expecting me? I didn’t realise you knew about Hogwarts. I was under the impression that you were Muggle-born.”

“Of course I know about Hogwarts,” Zena tells her. “My aunt and uncle told me about magic when I was seven.”

“Your aunt and uncle? You don’t live with your parents?”

“No, my parents are…” Zena trails off. Something about this is off. She has no aunts and uncles; both her mother and father are only children. They couldn’t have told her about magic. So how does she know about magic, or Hogwarts, and why does she remember conversations she’s never had with people she’s never met about things she’s never learned about?

(It is not just magic, either, that she remembers not learning. It is names, and faces, and rules; it is how many staircases are in Hogwarts, and how beautiful the Forbidden Forest is, and how cold the Black Lake is in February. It is the tumultuous relationship between the Houses, and the chill of the dungeons, cold black eyes, and whispered hisses, and the realization that even when it does not matter blood matters. It is finally understanding that even the safest place in the world is not so safe after all.)

“Your parents are?” McGonagall prompts.

Zena looks up at her. “I was going to say dead, but they’re not. Maybe it was a dream. I don’t know. It’s a little confusing, all these memories, when I’ve learned about Hogwarts from people I’ve never met.” She shakes her head. “Please, come in. My mother is in the sitting room.”

McGonagall gives her an odd look, the slant of it almost curious, before stepping inside. The door closes softly behind her.

What follows is a spiel not unlike the one Zena remembers. Indeed, the only things that have changed when she looks at her acceptance letter are the name written on the front of the envelope - though she cannot think of what it should be, when it is her name written there - and the books for each class, though even many of those are the same. There is the inclusion of a book on Muggle and Wixen Studies, and so she assumes that this class is a new part of the Traditional magic portion of the Hogwarts education. The only other thing that has changed is the name beside the word _Headmaster_. Instead of _Albus Dumbledore,_ it reads _Neville Longbottom._

“Neville is Headmaster?” Zena asks curiously. “I always thought that you would become Headmistress after Dumbledore.”

McGonagall’s eyes are piercing. “I was Headmistress, but I stepped down and returned to my position as the Transfiguration Professor a few years ago. Neville took my place. How do you know of him? As far as I know, he has spent little to no time in the Muggle world, and certainly not enough to have been noticed.”

“Neville and I have been friends for five years,” Zena tells her. “We met in Gringotts, when I was eleven. I think you were there that day, in fact. Don’t you remember?”

“Zena, darling,” her mother says, “You just turned eleven in December. You can’t have been friends with anyone for five years if you just met them five months ago. This is like what happened in London a few years ago,” she tells McGonagall, who gives her her full attention. “Zena and I were walking down the streets, and a man bumped into her. She called him… Caspian, no, Cassius, and told me she’d known him for five years. But he didn’t recognize her.”

“That’s very peculiar,” McGonagall says thoughtfully. “However, with this in mind, I would encourage you to attend Hogwarts; there are people in the Wixen world who can help you in ways that Muggles cannot.”

“What do you mean ‘help?’” Mum asks.

“In our world, there are stories about reincarnation. I would want to consult a Shaman to be absolutely certain, but I think there is a chance that Zena here is a reincarnated soul.”

“What is a Shaman?” her mother wonders. McGonagall opens her mouth to reply, but Zena answers before she can.

“A Shaman is one of the many affinities or specializations that Wixen can have. They have the ability to separate their body and soul, not unlike a Hedge Magician, though unlike a Hedge Magician, they cannot send their astral form to other dimensions. Instead, they can perform obscure magics while in their astral form, and can even see the souls of others. Wixen believe that every soul has its own distinct appearance, but the theory is that if a soul is reincarnated, it will look the same as it did during its first life, regardless of how different the physical bodies are.”

“That’s exactly right,” McGonagall says with some surprise. “If I hadn’t suspected before that you were a reincarnated soul, that would have convinced me. I will admit, though, that for all that we have heard of reincarnation, it is usually within families. You show up as being Muggle-born, which is why I’m here at all, but are you certain that you have no magical ancestry? Reincarnation is rare in and of itself, but I think that the fact that you are, by all appearances, a Muggle-born might be the most astonishing thing about this situation.”

“If our family has magical ancestry,” Mum replies, twirling a thick lock of her black hair around a slender finger, her dark eyes downcast and thoughtful, “I do not know of it. Of course, you may be able to find out if you ask Aindrea; perhaps he knows something. His side of the family is rather private, you know?”

McGonagall nods regally. “Indeed I do. Why, my mother’s father was Muggle-born, and _his_ father ran a crime syndicate. Can you imagine?” She huffs amusedly, shaking her head. “All things told, he was quite successful; my mother’s side of the family has been well-off for decades because of it.”

“A… crime ring?” Mum asks bemusedly, laughing slightly. “How’d they explain the money?”

McGonagall purses her lips (she wears the same expression on her face every time Fred and George pull something, and it becomes more prominent when the result is Umbridge’s continued suffering), fighting back a smirk. “They ran a paper store as a front, and claimed that greeting cards were in high demand.”

“And people believed them?”

“As a matter of fact… yes.”

“You must be joking.”

“I never joke, so you can believe me when I say this: allowing Zena to come to Hogwarts so that she can meet with a Shaman - and learn to control her magic - is the best thing you can possibly do for her.”

Mum’s gaze sharpens. “And why is that? Why does it matter if Zena is a reincarnated soul?”

Up until now, Mum has been quietly supportive; she has listened to McGonagall’s spiel attentively, asking clarifying questions, and never once has she seemed as though she doesn’t approve of Zena’s going to Hogwarts. McGonagall’s face betrays her understandable surprise at the sudden change.

“In all reality, being a reincarnated soul is the least of our worries; all Zena will ever have are memories of her past life. They might be confusing, or strange to live with, especially if she runs into people she knew, but if you decide not to follow up with it, it is unlikely to be detrimental to her growth. The most important thing is that Zena’s magic needs to be trained; she needs to learn to control it, and the best way to do that is under the guidance of qualified instructors.

“It is, of course, entirely your family’s decision, but if you do not send Zena to Hogwarts or some other magical school, you run the risk of her magic developing into an Obscurus.”

“What is an Obscurus?” Mum asks worriedly, obviously sensing the ominous tone behind the word.

“An Obscurus is a parasitical manifestation of a witch or wizard’s magic that will do anything to stay alive. It is often physically and magically destructive to both its host and its surroundings,” Zena says, suddenly remembering Professor Binns’ lecture on the subject back in first year with vivid clarity. “Typically, an Obscurus is developed over several years, when a young Wix represses their magic out of shame or fear. Most Obscurials - the unwitting host of an Obscurus - are young children who do not survive past puberty. The oldest documented Obscurial was Credence Barebone, an American wizard who was alive during Grindelwald’s reign of terror. When Credence was discovered to be an Obscurial, he was twenty-five; according to Newt Scamander - Hogwarts alumnus, a Magizoologist, and the author of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ \- Credence was the most powerful Obscurial he’d ever encountered. Some scholars have theorized that it was in part Credence’s age which made him so powerful. Ultimately, even the Obscurus was not powerful enough to protect Credence during his encounter with several American Aurors and Grindelwald himself.”

McGonagall nods. “Precisely. There is another way an Obscurus can develop beyond the method of magical repression. It is not so thoroughly documented because we do everything in our power to prevent it, but if a Wix is not properly trained in the usage of their magic, it can become destructive. That is why we insist on a minimum of five years of education, be it at Hogwarts or some other magical school, or from qualified tutors.

“I would say that - if she truly is a reincarnated soul, and her knowledge implies that she is - Zena’s situation is actually a bit more delicate than most.” She looks Zena in the eye. “Am I correct in thinking that you remember learning magic?”

“Kind of,” she replies thoughtfully. “The memories have triggers. Like, if I see a person, or their name, like with Neville’s, or hear a word, the memories come. But not all of them; it’s just vague details when it’s about people, almost like it’s an opinion formed over several years, and it’s got bits and pieces of memories about that person in there, but it’s little things that help fill them in, I guess. And the other memories don’t just come without prompting. I mean, obviously once they come, they’re there. But it’s patchy. Fragmented memories and lots of holes, I guess. So I remember learning _some_ magic, but not all of it, and some of it is the _doing_ aspect of a spell, or the theory, but not really both.”

“As I suspected. So, Mrs Sinclair, it really _would_ be detrimental to Zena’s growth if she did not receive a magical education. Whatever memories she may have from her past life are simply not informative enough to allow her to relearn magic on her own. In fact, I worry that if she _were_ to attempt such a thing, she would damage her magic in such a way that the result would be an Obscurus. Such a fate is not something I would wish on my worst enemy.”

Mum looks away, folding her lips together in a thin line. Her hands fall from her hair to her lap, her fingers lacing tightly together, and her shoulders sag. “It’s not that I don’t want you to learn magic, darling,” she says quietly. “My reasons are rather selfish, all things considered.” She looks down at her knotted fingers. “I just. I don’t want you to leave. Hogwarts is a boarding school, and it’s in a place I can’t visit you. I just worry, is all.”

“I need this,” Zena tells her. “I need to go.”

“I know.”

“Even if it was a case like Credence’s, I’d still die young if I don’t go. All Obscurials do,” she pushes.

“I _know._ I know, Zena. You’re going. Of course you are. It’s what’s best for you, and I know that, but it doesn’t mean I like it, when what’s best for you is going to Hogwarts, which means I won’t see you for the better part of the year - for the better part of anywhere from five to seven years, really, and because you’re you, it’ll be seven at _least_.”

“I’ll visit you on breaks,” Zena tells her consolingly, “and I’ll be here every summer, too.”

“And when you graduate? Zena. _Darling._ Once you leave, you won’t come back. You were born into a world that can’t accept you for who you are, and with a world that can? With a world that _wants_ you because of your magic, why would you come back and _stay_ in a world that doesn’t?”

Zena is quiet, thinking.”I’ll come back as long as you’re here, Mummy, because you love me whether I have magic or not.”

Mum offers her a sad, knowing smile. “Alright, darling.” She says the words like she doesn’t believe it, and Zena can’t tell if it is her or the words that her mother doubts.

“I presume you will be joining us on the trip to Diagon Alley?” McGonagall asks, her face serene, as though she didn’t witness the words exchanged between Zena and her mother.

She remembers going to Diagon the first time, remembers the people she’d met, and the colourful beauty lining the streets. In some ways, Diagon is her favorite part of the magical world, second only to Hogwarts itself, and it is in part due to the fact that Diagon was where her first foray into the magical world took place.

“Yes, I think so; it was how I met several of my closest friends.”

You were Muggle-born in your previous life, then?” McGonagall asks curiously. “How unusual.”

Zena tilts her head. “Maybe. But I don’t think so,” she says doubtfully.

She is given a speculative look and a brisk nod before McGonagall stands and gathers her things. “Well then. I suppose I will see you next week when I arrive to pick you up for our trip. I’ll show myself to the door. Have a lovely afternoon, ladies.”

She is gone in a swirl of green, and though it is a week before Zena sees her again, it doesn’t seem as though nearly that much time has elapsed before she is opening the door to McGonagall’s stern face once again.

“Magnus Gaunt,” a handsome boy with dark hair and eyes introduces himself. His name seems familiar, somehow, but she can’t quite place it. Zena doesn’t think she’s ever known anyone named Gaunt. Magnus - with his hair and his eyes and his placid expression and his name most of all - reminds her of Tom. She can’t remember who Tom is.

He is the first one who has offered anything more than a superficial greeting now that she has joined the group of first-years standing outside her house. He sticks his hand out, and she takes hold of it, pumping it twice, just like her uncle taught her so many years ago. She wonders if he’s still alive before remembering that she’s never had an uncle.

“Zena Sinclair,” she tells Magnus, and for the first time in her life, the name doesn’t seem to fit quite right. She shakes the odd feeling off; this has been her name since the day she was born, and it’ll be the name she has until the day she dies.

“I have a feeling we’ll be great friends, you and I,” Magnus says. This is something she remembers. This is familiar. It has always been so very easy to make friends. All it ever takes is a flash of a smile, or a kind word, or an abrasive statement, or standing up to put herself between them.

Who is _them_? She doesn’t know anymore. Has she _ever_ known?

“I rather think you’re right,” Zena replies in a posh tone, and slips her arm into his. “Come on then, old boy. We’ve things that need doing.”

He looks at her in slight shock, though he recovers quickly. “Quite right, quite right. And look, yon! Our noble chariot awaits.”

She snorts a laugh, ignoring the curious glances the firsties are casting in their direction. Not far ahead, McGonagall is standing patiently by the open doors of the Knight Bus.

How interesting that it finally lives up to its name. The last time she’d seen it, it had been painted a conspicuous royal purple. Now, however, the massive double-decker is a midnight blue, spangled across the top with glittering stars; at the bottom, a knight in shining armour rides a beautiful stallion across the landscape that has been painted.

Zena pulls herself out of her musings to continue her charade with Magnus. “Come, my dear gentleman, and escort me there.”

“Certainly, my lady,” Magnus murmurs, and they prance together across the street to board the bus.

“They’re _really_ weird,” a girl with sleek black hair mutters to her friend, who nods.

“Do you think they knew each other before today, and that’s why they’re acting like that?”

The black-haired girl snorts. “No, didn’t you see them introducing themselves to each other? They’re both just freaks.”

It seems to Zena as though it’s a little early in the game for insults, but she’s never been one to take them lying down. “Excuse me,” she says to the black-haired girl and her friend, who jerk their heads up in startlement. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation about Magnus and me. I just wanted to let you know that I think it’s more freakish to be all,” she waves her hand vaguely at them, “ _judgemental_ about two kids who’re having fun than it is to _be_ those kids having fun. It’s not _our_ fault that the two of you’ve got sticks up your butts and don’t understand the concept of spontaneity.”

They scowl at her. “If being _spontaneous_ means we have to make fools of ourselves, I’d rather not risk it.”

“Suit yourselves,” Zena shrugs. “But when you finally realise that you don’t know how to stop being boring, stuck-up pricks, don’t come crying to me about it, mmkay?”

“Don’t worry, we won’t,” the friend tells her with mild disgust, her lip curling.

“Well, good. I’m glad we’re on the same page,” she says cheerfully, and moves back to her seat beside Magnus.

McGonagall is sitting in front of them, and Zena leans forward to tap her shoulder. “When did they repaint the Knight Bus?”

“About ten years ago,” McGonagall replies dismissively.

Zena frowns. She remembers McGonagall being far more talkative last time, and tells her so.

“I’m giving you all a chance to make friends,” McGonagall says, and returns to the fifty-pence novel in her hand.

Zena settles back into her seat, turning back to Magnus, who proceeds to ask various questions and provide his own answers to them. She learns that where her favourite colour is red, his is blue, and where she has always liked English and History classes, Magnus much prefers Maths.

“So are you Muggle-born?” Zena finds herself asking once they have run out of mundane things to talk about.

Magnus gives her a peculiar look. “Professor McGonagall asked me the same question. She said my surname was a well-known name in the Wixen world. As far as I know, both my parents are non-magical. It’s possible that the man whose -” he makes a face that is part disgust, part anger “- despicable actions resulted in the birth of my Great-Grandpa is where my magic came from. Great-Great-Grandma told her parents she’d married him when she found out she was pregnant, and so she gave Great-Grandpa his last name. That’s how my family became Gaunts.”

“Well, I’m sure we can find out, if you want,” Zena says.

“I’m not sure I do,” he tells her as the Knight Bus comes to a jerking stop. They file off, and Zena finds herself standing in front of the Leaky Cauldron, which looks just as grungy and unwelcoming as she remembers.

Like the Leaky, Diagon Alley is the same as it’s always been; after stopping in Gringotts to convert their Muggle money into Galleons and Sickles and Knuts, they go off in groups to gather their supplies.

Zena doesn’t see anyone she recognises, and she has already written the other Muggle-borns off; if they - coming into a world of magic - cannot bring themselves to accept her eccentricities, then they aren’t worth her time and effort. She likes making and having friends, because it’s always nice to have people to talk to in the middle of the night, but she doesn’t really _need_ them. And besides, she’s already made one friend today. Though it’s nowhere near the number she managed to collect last time, it’s still not too shabby.

Somehow, Diagon seems less exciting than she remembers. Perhaps it is just that she’s seen it so many times before, but Madam Malkin’s is boring, and Flourish and Blotts had lost its charm after the first time; the shelves and towers of books in the common room are more diverse, and they’re easier to find.

Really, the only truly fascinating thing about Diagon is Ollivanders. She’s vaguely surprised that it’s still standing, but it looks the same: a little bit rickety, the walls slightly warped, the door hinges squeaky and covered in rust. Inside, the myriad of wand boxes balanced haphazardly on every available surface of the shop is familiar, too.

One by one, they find their wands. This time, there is no one to talk about Wandlore, and so Zena and Magnus sit side by side trying to assign meanings to the woods and cores that Ollivander announces.

Finally it is Zena’s turn. She half expects Ollivander to pull out her wand, but he doesn’t. He hands her various wands, none of them with the core or wood she expects. “Holly,” he says, and this sounds vaguely familiar, “and Phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Go on, give it a wave.”

She does, and warmth rushes through her, flooding her veins.

Ollivander cackles. “How interesting. Very interesting. That wand was quite difficult to make, you know. Holly and Phoenix feather don’t tend to get along, and the Phoenix that particular feather came from was a very interesting creature. That wand is one of a kind, Miss Sinclair, and very picky; I’ve been trying to help it choose someone since I made it back in eighty-one! I think you’ll do very interesting things with it under your employ.”

Zena frowns down at the wand in her hand. It’s a beautiful, sleek thing, and fairly sturdy despite the fact that it tapers down into a thin, delicate-looking tip. It _feels_ right. It likes her, she can feel that much. But she can’t help feeling disappointed. She doesn’t know _what_ she was expecting, only that this - holly wrapped tightly around Phoenix feather, all eleven inches of it surprisingly flexible - was not it.

She is still wondering hours later, when McGonagall has dropped her back off at home, and she has promised to find Magnus on the train so they can sit together on the way to Hogwarts.

Suddenly, all these memories that don’t belong to her are tiring. It’s exhausting to remember the world one way, and to see the world without that rose-coloured tint. She’s glad she’s going to Hogwarts; maybe there there’ll be a way to get this stranger’s life story _out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is mine again. If it seems familiar, it's a duplicate from That Ordinary Language.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprising absolutely no one...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is another time skip between this chapter and the last one.
> 
> Enjoy!

_You look in the mirror, and what do you see?_

_The backwards reflection you’ll never be._

_Some day you’ll realize who you are,_

_And you’ll wonder how you got this far._

_But you’re the one in this story_

_Who cannot see yourself clearly._

_So what are you going to do, my dear,_

_When yours is the shadow that you fear?_

* * *

“Okay, you know what Luka?” Zena tells the Hufflepuff Quidditch captain, who scowls at her resignedly. She can tell that he knows she’s going to walk away and pretend that their conversation never happened. Again. “I’m just going to go… over there,” she gestures vaguely to where Magnus is sitting at the Ravenclaw table, “and I’m going to work on my homework for Potions, and you’re going to leave me alone, okay?”

She doesn’t wait around for his reply, instead backing away from him before turning on her heel and walking briskly to Magnus’ side. She slips into the empty space on the bench beside him.

“What did he want this time?” Magnus asks curiously.

“The same thing he’s wanted for the past four years,” she groans. “He wants me to play Chaser on the team. He told me he’d been watching me fly recently, and that he really thinks ‘I could bring some oomph to the team.’”

Magnus makes a face. “Did he really say that?”

“Yup.”

“Do you think he realises that saying that makes him seem kind of creepy, and also like he’s trying way too hard to be cool?”

“I know, right? I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say _oomph_. Even Mum doesn’t say that, and she’s almost as old school as the Pure-bloods.”

He snorts. “She’s not quite that bad, and you know it. And you should give them some credit. Headmaster Longbottom likes to talk about how they were stuck in the seventeenth century for four centuries. I know you’ve heard him, even if you pretend like you’re not paying attention in Herbology.”

“There’s a question,” she says. “Why does Headmaster Longbottom teach Herbology on top of his duties as Headmaster? If you ask anyone, you’ll figure out that previous Headmasters and Headmistresses did one or the other. Dumbledore was the Transfiguration professor, but he dropped that when he became Headmaster. McGonagall stopped teaching Transfiguration for the years she was Headmistress, too.”

“Transfiguration is a more theory-intensive subject than Herbology,” he reminds her. “And you’re not entirely right, either. For the most part, Headmasters don’t teach any of the core subjects, but Dumbledore was teaching Alchemy while he was Headmaster, and McGonagall taught Conjuration.”

“Really?” Zena frowns. “I didn’t know that. I guess it makes sense, though. Less students, and a specialized class. Yeah, that would fit in better with all the other duties, because you’re not teaching the same class to multiple different years multiple times a week.” 

“Exactly. Oh, and speaking of fitting things in, you’ve got your appointment with that Shaman this afternoon. Don’t forget.”

“I would have. Thanks. I hope they’ll be able to figure out a way to stop the memories. They’re distracting, and sometimes they give me nightmares.”

“That must be disconcerting.”

“It is. They’re super vague, most of the time, or they just don’t make sense, because I don’t really know anything about whoever’s memories I’ve got. I don’t even know their _name_ , Magnus, and I own fragments of their _life_.”

“Do you ever wonder who it could be?”

“Of course I do. But is knowing going to help me in any way? It’s not like figuring out who it is is going to make the memories go away.”

“Well, I’ve been reading up on reincarnation ever since you told me about it, and apparently reincarnated souls tend to be looking for justice. So maybe if you figure out who it is, and what they experienced, maybe the memories _will_ go away.” He sticks a spoonful of cold cereal into his mouth, and jots something down in the margins of his Charms textbook.

“I guess it’s worth a shot,” she concedes. “But I’ll wait to see what the Shaman thinks.”

The first few years at Hogwarts had been like any other school year; Zena had never really gotten around to making more friends than Magnus, even after she’d been Sorted into Hufflepuff. Instead, she’d been caught up in classes, and sneaking a broom out of the shed to fly on late at night. She’d had her first meeting with a Shaman within the first week, and he had confirmed that Zena was a reincarnated soul. Then he had said that it would be a few years before anything could be done about it.

So Zena had focused on schoolwork and Magnus, and she’d made sure to write letters home each week. Four oddly quiet years had passed, during which Magnus found out about her situation, did some preliminary research, and informed her that her next visit with a Shaman would likely include a Telepath, and that it might be wise to learn Occlumency so that her memories were easier to navigate.

And so, she and Magnus had learned Occlumency together, as well as rudimentary Legilimency, and had learned far more about each other in the process than either of them had ever wanted to know.

Near the end of fourth year, Zena had received a letter from one of the co-CEOs of Eros & Psyche who had offered his services, and those of his employee Adrian Pucey. Eros & Psyche was a company that developed potions, combined magic and Muggle methods for handling the mind and soul, and presented the Wizengamot with more up-to-date laws regarding various potions, potion-ingredients and their sources, memory magic, other mind-related things, and soul magic; it was founded by school-mates Theodore Nott and Millicent Bulstrode, with additional funding made readily available to them by Headmaster Longbottom, Blaise Zabini, and Daphne Greengrass.

Zena had accepted, feeling rather proud of what her friends had done with themselves, and she and Mr Nott had agreed to meet in the second week of September.

Somehow, back in June, even knowing that it would be OWL year coming up, Zena had managed to convince herself that her work load would be light enough that such a meeting would fit in perfectly well with her schedule.

She grimaces down at her Potions homework, tapping her pen against the sleek cover of her textbook. What _had_ she been thinking?

* * *

“Miss Sinclair,” a figure she assumes is Mr Nott greets her reservedly as she walks through the open doors of the Hospital Wing, looking around herself curiously; Zena has been learning the winding corridors and trick steps and hidden rooms of Hogwarts since she first arrived five years ago, and she has somehow managed to avoid entering the Hospital Wing after meeting with the Shaman that first week of first year. Under Madam Pomfrey’s regime, the space looks the same as it did the last time, with its white walls and the equally white linens folded crisply over the brass-framed cots lining the walls. The afternoon sun pours through the windows, staining the spotless floor with warm rectangles of light.

It is rather cozy, all things considered.

“Good afternoon, Mr Nott. And it’s just Zena,” Zena replies stiltedly. She isn’t used to this kind of formality.

Mr Nott steps into her line of sight, and she remembers the first time she’d met him. He is older than she remembers, and quite handsome, with his dark hair and brilliantly coloured eyes. They no longer have shadows beneath them, as they so often did when she knew him, and she wonders if it is because his father is dead. “Call me Theo. I have a feeling we’ll be getting to know each other quite well.” He holds out a pale, elegant hand for her to shake, and Zena does so a little awkwardly, unused to shaking with her left. She is a little shocked to see the slender gold ring adorning his fourth finger. Theo had always been the most vocal of their group about marriage, claiming that he would never get married.

“I thought you swore you’d never get married, Theo,” Zena says, falling into the easy camaraderie they’d built over the years. “And here you are, a ring to chain you to someone else.” She smiles up at him; Theo has been taller than her since his growth spurt during fourth year, when he’d refused to write home for robes that fit, choosing instead to wander the halls with his robes hanging several inches above his ankles.

Theo gives her an odd look. Zena has been on the receiving end of a great deal of those for years now, and has grown rather used to them.

“How do you know that?” he asks curiously.

Zena shrugs. “I just do. I know a lot about you, like how you thought that your father being a Death Eater meant that we couldn’t be friends, or that you're always first to land on the _Get Married_ square when you play Life, and you always swear it’s something you’ll never do. Affinities have always fascinated you, too, and so have the associations between dark cores and evil.”

Theo frowns thoughtfully. “If that’s not confirmation that you’ve been reincarnated, I don’t know what is. I suppose that now it’s only a matter of figuring out who you were, and what to do next. Adrian’s waiting for us over there.” He motions to where a tall, slender brunet is sitting in front of a window. “Do you know Adrian?”

“Of course,” she scoffs. “He was the only decent Seeker Slytherin had, and it was a pity when he had to step down because Malfoy bought his way onto the team.”

Theo laughs. “Yes that _was_ a tragedy, wasn’t it. I remember Marcus was torn between glee and fury when Malfoy first joined. On the one hand, the Slytherin team got top of the line brooms. On the other, it got Malfoy as Seeker, and while he was decent, he was never good enough to beat Haven. But then, she was in a different league altogether, wasn’t she?”

“Reminiscing again?” Adrian asks Theo. He turns to Zena. “Haven was one of his best friends during Hogwarts. She was friends with almost everyone, actually. But she disappeared the summer after Voldemort’s death, and no one really knows what happened to her.”

“There’s a _Daily Prophet_ article that says she’s dead,” Zena says.

“But there was no body ever found,” Theo disagrees. “The last time we assumed someone was dead when there wasn’t a body left behind was back in eighty-one, and Voldemort came back, didn’t he?”

“So you think Haven Potter is still alive?”

“Yes,” Theo says.

Adrian says, “No,” at the same moment, the word solid and heavy as it scrapes unforgivingly against Theo’s opinion.

Theo throws Adrian a sharp glance. Adrian shrugs. “You were better friends with Haven than I was, Theo, but even I know that she’d never have disappeared for this long if she could help it. And if she can’t help it, then she’d be better off dead.”

Theo looks away for a moment, shaking his head briefly. He turns back to Zena, offering her a smile. “Alright, Zena. Sit down here. I’m just going to take a quick look at your soul while Adrian works his magic, alright?”

“Okay.” Something in her tone must betray her nerves. Adrian and Theo exchange a glance before Theo moves a few feet away, busying himself with collecting chairs for Adrian and himself.

“Hey, Zena,” Adrian says softly, crouching down in front of her so that they’re eye level with each other. “All you’ve gotta do is relax enough for me to get in, okay? I’ll take care of the rest, until I can find you inside your head. Then we’ll go through your memories together, alright. We’ll try to figure out who you were together, and if you’re with me the entire time, you can make sure I don’t look at anything you don’t want me to see. Sound good?”

Zena takes a shaky breath and nods. “Why is Theo going to look at my soul if we already know I’ve been reincarnated?”

Theo reappears and sets up the chairs. “Souls are distinct. The things you know about me and Adrian tell us that you were at school while we were. If you were still there when my affinity presented itself, there’s a chance that I took a look at your soul at some point. If I did, I’ll be able to tell who you were, even if you and Adrian can’t figure it out from your memories. But there’s a chance I won’t have looked at your soul, which is why Adrian is here in the first place. Looking through memories is generally a fool proof way to figure out somebody’s identity.”

“What is a person? They are flesh and blood and bone. They are heart and mind and soul. They are a breath of air, and laughter in the depths of sadness, and tears on the wings of joy. They are life and love and magic. They are memories, for what are any of us without the memories of our lives to make us whole?” Adrian says.

Theo rolls his eyes fondly. “It’s not classy to quote yourself.”

“At least I didn’t preface it with the words _a wise man once said,_ ” Adrian retorts. “And don’t you have more important things to be doing than criticizing me? I’m _trying_ to do my job here.”

Theo gives him a flat look. “Then get to it.”

“Alright, Zena. I need you to look me in the eyes and trust that I’m not going to hurt you, alright? I just need you to open the door a little bit, just enough to let me in, okay? After that, the hard part’s over.”

Zena gives Adrian a determined nod, looks him in the eyes, and pretends that it is Magnus who she is letting into her mind.

“C’mon in,” she tells Adrian, holding open the front door to her house. He walks in front of her, and she closes the door behind herself. Together, they walk down the hallway into the living room, which looks uncannily like the Gryffindor common room she’s (seen every day for years on end) never seen.

“Where do you think you keep your memories?” Adrian asks curiously, looking around himself. Zena knows he is seeing all the potential hiding spots in her mind, wondering which ones she has used.

She pulls him over to the sprawling bookshelves. “They’re all right here,” she says, running her finger-tips over their colourful spines. 

She pulls one of the books out. It is labelled with curling black ink that reads _Seventh Birthday._ She opens it the barest amount, and a faded image pours out in front of them. It is of a young girl in a bright red coat holding her mother’s hand, the quality of it like that of an old photograph; it fades into the girl facing a handsome man in a green and silver scarf, her mother looking on curiously; then, the girl and her mother are walking away from the man, whose back is to them. Finally, the girl is curled up in a warm room with a mug cradled in her hands, her mother and father and grandparents looking on fondly. A warm scent, like woodsmoke and cinnamon and eggnog, curls around them, warming Zena to her toes. 

The image lingers a moment before fading, taking the smell with it, before beginning to cycle through again. Zena snaps the book shut, well aware of how difficult it is to tear herself away from her memories; it is these ones, too, with their simple warmth, that make her want to open the books all the way, so that the entire memory plays out in detail so vivid that she is almost reliving the moment all over again.

“You met Cassius?” Adrian asks curiously.

“Yeah. He didn’t recognize me. I couldn’t understand why, back then.”

Adrian smiles softly. “You don’t really look like anyone we knew or know. It’s not surprising that he didn’t recognize you, really. In fact, I’m surprised _you_ recognized _him_.”

“That’s how the memories are,” Zena tells him. “They come in association to something. Names and faces, mostly, but sometimes I remember things, too.”

“But you don’t remember who you were?”

“No.”

“Huh. Okay. I don’t think this is the place we need to be looking, then, if the memories don’t just unlock themselves as you age. Can you think of anywhere else the memories might be?”

Zena thinks for a moment. “Whoever I was… they liked heights. They liked being up high, so that everything on the ground was miniscule. I think…” she pauses and looks up at the criss-crossing beams that stretch from wall to wall, high above their heads. “I think they might be up there.”

Adrian follows her gaze. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s get up there, then.”

Zena climbs one of the ladders leading up to the rafters, and Adrian follows behind her. She pulls herself up hand over hand, and it is far easier to do within the confines of her mind than it would be in real life; by the time she manages to get a hand on one of the beams and swing herself up onto it, she isn’t even out of breath.

“Is this what the Gryffindor common room looks like?” Adrian asks curiously.

“Yeah.”

“Huh. You kinda struck me as a Hufflepuff.”

“I am a Hufflepuff. But I was a Gryffindor before.”

He gives her a thoughtful look. “I wonder…” He doesn’t complete his thought, something sad seeping into his expression in response to whatever he’s thinking.

“You wonder?” she prompts.

Adrian shakes his head. “Just a suspicion. I’m not necessarily right, of course, and I don’t want to say anything without more evidence.” He releases a quiet breath through his nose, and mutters, “It would make sense, though.”

Zena waits a moment to see if he’ll explain his mumblings. He doesn’t, and so she moves forward on the beam, one foot in front of the other until she reaches the piles of books and blankets partway down. “I think the memories are here,” she tells Adrian. “Hidden under the blankets and peering out so that they can show up when they see something they recognize, you know?”

Adrian’s eyebrows furrow and he chews the inside of his cheek. “I suppose that makes sense. I’ll let you do the honours, since this is your mind.”

Zena waits for him to step back before she lifts up the topmost blanket. It is soft to the touch, and it unfolds as she raises it into the air. Out of its hidden creases, dozens of tiny little Snitches fly out, glittering gold in the firelight far below, their delicate white wings fluttering frantically in the air as they hover in a cloud of metal and feathers before her. She reaches out to grab one, holding it delicately between her fingers so that its wings come to a standstill. Like with her books, a faded image stitches itself painstakingly into the empty space before them.

The still image shows a snowy owl flying through the sky, its white feathers bold against the deep blue it cuts through. It holds something in its claws that she cannot quite make out. The next image is of the owl perched regally in the window of the Owlrey, and the thing that was in its talons is spread out against the cool gray stone beside it. She can just barely make out some of the words written on the parchment in that cramped handwriting. She can read _Remus_ and _Dora_ and _Edward_ and, at the very end, she can make out the words _Love, Sirius._

“I’d forgotten about Edward,” she muses. “I don’t think I’ve ever met him. How is he, do you know?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone named Edward,” Adrian says apologetically.

“Oh,” she replies, setting the Snitch free. The image fades into nothingness, and she feels rather empty without it. She reaches for another Snitch.

This time, the image that unfolds is of the Quidditch pitch. The stands around it are filled to the brim, blobs of blue and green and yellow and red mixed together. In the air above the stands, a Quidditch game is being played. Gryffindor against Slytherin, she notices. The Chasers are locked in a battle against each other, and the Beaters hover over their shoulders, their bats frozen in mid-swing. On opposite ends of the pitch, the Keepers guard their goals relentlessly, leaning forward on their brooms, prepared to move. High above them all, the Seekers have their brooms angled towards the ground, where she can just barely see the glint of the Snitch hiding in the grass below.

The image changes, and this time, the Seekers are the main focus. Their faces are set with determination as they race each other. The dark-haired Slytherin boy has his gaze directly ahead, while the red-haired Gryffindor girl seems to be climbing on top of her broom.

She knows what happens next, and is unsurprised when the image changes again. The Gryffindor girl has her hand close to her mouth, the Snitch half in and half out as she kneels on the ground. The Slytherin boy stares at her in shock. Behind her, the Gryffindor team is touching down, some of them racing towards her, their faces exultant.

Zena lets go of the Snitch. The image crumples into itself.

“That was the first game Haven played,” Adrian tells her. “She beat me to the Snitch by swallowing it, and no one could believe it.”

“I remember,” she replies, already reaching for another Snitch. She lifts it to her mouth before the memory can pour out, curious as to what will happen.

Instead of still images, a full blown memory forces its way out of the Snitch.

_The castle doors swing open, and light pours through them. They close so that only a sliver of light can stain the ground. A shadowy figure appears suddenly, a silvery cloak rippling into view. They hurry down to Hagrid’s hut. A soft bark shatters the silence of the night. A massive dog rushes to greet the figure, who shoves the hood of their winter cloak away from their face. Together, the dog and the girl make their way across the castle grounds, tiptoeing across the frost-covered grass until they reach the Black Lake._

_The girl mutters a spell under her breath, and a thick layer of ice creeps across the surface of the lake. She steps onto it cautiously, and then with less care when it doesn’t crack beneath her weight. She glides forward. The dog follows her, slipping across the slick ice._

_The girl and the dog skate from side to side for several minutes, gaining speed with each push. The girl’s cloak billows behind her, and she pirouettes on the lake, heedless of the bitter cold of winter._

_Eventually, they stop moving, and the girl flicks her wand again, this time in a circular motion. Her face glows in the moonlight. “Expecto Patronum,” she whispers. Silvery light curls out of the tip of her wand, spreading first into something resembling a shield, and then coalescing into something with a more distinct form. A massive lion leaps forward, glowing with its own light, and it pads through the air around the girl. It roars silently up at the sky, and the dog barks in reply._

The memory fades. “Ah,” Adrian says. “Haven.”

“Yes?” she asks without thinking.

He gives her a weak smile, and reaches for another Snitch. This one looks different than the others, its wings fluttering half-heartedly, and the metal around them rusted and dull. He hands it to her, and she takes it reflexively.

The image that paints itself into the air before them is nothing more than a flash of green. She can feel it swallowing her.

“Like I thought. You were Haven. I don’t know if you’ve remembered yet, but Voldemort tried to kill her with a Killing Curse when she was a baby.” He gestures to the image lingering in the air. “I guessed with the memory of that Quidditch match, and I was almost sure when the Patronus came up. Now I know.” He sighs a little sadly. “Well, it’s time to go reconvene with Theo, now that we know who you were.”

Instead of climbing back down, Zena and Adrian jump to the floor and walk back to the hallway. Zena pauses with her hand on the door, ready to open it. “You didn’t suspect before that I might’ve been Haven?”

“It was a possibility,” he allows. “But Haven’s not the only friend we’ve lost who would’ve known so much about Theo and I. She’s not the only one who would’ve had those memories, you know? And she let other people use Hedwig all the time. Aries Black, for one; it wouldn’t have been unusual for him to have gotten a letter from Sirius. And Hermione Granger, as well. She was there for all of those memories except for the last two we saw. You could’ve been any of them, really, and they’re not the only options, either.

“You have to remember, too,” he adds, “that we’ve never had proof of death for Haven. It wouldn’t occur to most people that you were her.”

“Do you think Theo knows?”

Adrian looks down at her, his eyes soft and sad. “Yeah. I think he does. He’d have seen your soul before.”

Zena swallows. “He’s going to be devastated, isn’t he?”

Adrian dips his chin towards his chest, and whispers, “Yeah. He will be.”

She pushes open the door. 

She opens her eyes to see Theo and Adrian are seated in front of her, watching her wordlessly.

It is Adrian who is brave enough to break the silence. “We know who she was.” His voice is rough, and his expression pinched with unhappiness.

Theo gives Adrian a pleading look, as though he’d wanted to ignore the truth a while longer. “Yeah, I figured it out, too.”

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Adrian asks, sounding heartbroken.

Theo looks at Zena with wet eyes, then looks away, folding his lips together in a tight line and swallowing hard. “Yes,” he whispers. “She’s dead. I think - I think I’ve always known that. It was just easier to think that she was still alive, somewhere. Without us.” He ducks his chin, hiding his face.

“She never would have left without saying goodbye if she’d had a choice,” Adrian says softly. He moves to kneel before the chair Theo is sitting in and slips his arms around Theo’s waist. 

Theo slumps forward, his shoulders stooping and his back curving as his body sags. He melts into Adrian’s embrace, his head resting in the crook of Adrian’s neck. His shoulders shake. He takes tiny, gasping breaths, and makes no other sound.

Adrian smooths a hand up and down Theo’s spine, his fingers smoothing through the loose curls at his nape on every upstroke, and Zena has to look away from the scene in front of her before it breaks her heart.

It must hurt terribly to lose a friend, even if they’ve been lost for years already.

* * *

Magnus meets her on the seventh floor after classes end. This is a ritual they have spent the past five years developing, and even in her bewilderment, Zena cannot bring herself to disrupt the pattern.

She leans back against the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her as she stares blankly at the painting of Barnabus the Barmy. Magnus doesn’t question her. Instead, he paces three times in front of the empty wall, and waits patiently for the door to appear.

When Zena finally gathers enough energy to stand up and go in, she is surprised to see a replica of her mindscape.

“I asked the room for what you needed,” Magnus offers in explanation. “Apparently, this is it.”

She moves over to where he is sprawled across the couch, his bag on the floor. He scoots over to make room for her, and she lies down beside him, her back to his chest and his knees stacked beneath hers. Magnus allows her to wallow in silence for a few moments, and then - when she feels warm and heavy and on the verge of falling asleep - he murmurs, “Tell me what happened?”

“They figured out who I was,” she whispers back.

“Who?”

“Haven Potter.”

“And what’s so bad about that?”

“She was their friend. _I_ was their friend. And now she’s dead, and I’ve got her memories, so it’s almost like she isn’t dead, after all, and it’s hard to watch how that knowledge affects other people.”

“So this isn’t about you?” Magnus doesn’t even have the decency to sound surprised.

“Have you ever seen a full-grown man break down because he’s finally got a reason to grieve after _years?_ It’s terrible to watch, Magnus. I don’t feel an emotional connection to her, and I wanted to cry because my being here means they _lost_ someone.”

“They lost her years ago. No, Zena, listen to me. _Listen._ It’s not your fault that they didn’t mourn her years ago. It’s not your fault that they were holding out hope, okay? And it isn’t like you chose to be reincarnated so that you could torment them with your soul and your life and your _memories_ that aren’t even yours anymore.”

She turns in his embrace so that she can press her face into Magnus’ neck. “This is why you’re a Ravenclaw and I’m a Hufflepuff. You’re logical. You can reason your way through this. But what’s happening here, it’s emotional. It isn’t logical, and trying to parse it with logic won’t help. They feel devastated, and I feel guilty, and those feelings aren’t leaving anytime soon.”

Magnus is silent for a moment. He sighs. “What can I do to help you?”

Zena inhales against the warmth of his skin. “Just… wait, I guess. And listen.”

“I can do that.” He kisses her hair and falls silent.

“I know,” she says a few moments later, imprinting her words onto the space where she can feel the faint, echoing beat of his heart.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus and Zena: junior detectives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait. I am extremely slow, apparently. Also, this story was at one point going to be seven chapters long. I've decided that seven chapters is excessive, and so I'll be aiming for six. Chapter five is an interlude, and I have it completed, so that should be up shortly, and then I can work on wrapping this story up so that I can go back to focusing on one piece at a time.
> 
> If anyone feels that the rating is inappropriate for the content, or if you catch any mistakes that I've missed, feel free to let me know.
> 
> Enjoy!

_You wonder sometimes about who and why,_

_When your potential has always surpassed the sky._

_But then you remember your enemies,_

_And think this must have been the plan of centuries._

_So you wonder again about who and how_

_When your worst offense was not taking a bow._

_Then you ask if it was a crime of intent,_

_But who would have killed you in your own element?_

* * *

_The house is quiet. But then, after the chaos of the war - after losing Hermione and Aries and Dumbledore and so many others -_ everything _seems quiet. Even her mind is silent, showing itself to her as blank, noiseless whiteness. She feels like she’s drowning in the oppressive lack of sound, like she’s underwater, or under the influence of grief, and deaf with it. The monochromatic colour scheme the world seems to have adopted since she set foot back in the Muggle world is stifling._

 _Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon are at a business dinner with some of Uncle Vernon’s colleagues. Dudley has been dragged to London by his girlfriend. They have all given up on dragging her out of her head, and so she is alone. She entertains herself half-heartedly;_ The Hobbit _lies open in her lap, and Bilbo - in the scene that never fails to make her laugh, though it fails now - is singing ‘Attercop.’ She wonders if Tolkien was a wizard, and if the spiders he wrote about were inspired by the Acromantula that lurk in the deep darks of the Wixen world and attack innocent children unprovoked._

_“Avada Kedavra!” a familiar voice says suddenly, startling her. She turns her head just in time to be swallowed by a flash of green._

* * *

Zena startles awake, a gasp catching in her throat.

“What’s wrong?” Magnus asks worriedly, his voice gravelly with sleep.

“Nightmare,” she tells him, sitting up and looking around herself. It takes longer than it should for her to regain her bearings; she and Magnus must have fallen asleep in the Room of Requirement after she’d told him about her meeting with Theo and Adrian.

“Nightmare? Or memory?” he queries.

“I - memory.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I - _she_ \- was murdered.”

“Who did it? Does anyone else know?”

“I don’t know. Probably not, except for whoever killed her. No one was even sure if she was really dead or not before today.”

Magnus tilts his chin down to look at her; his face is solemn, tinged with sorrow, and his eyes do not leave hers. “Do you want to try to find out who did it?”

“Yes.”

* * *

“According to this _Daily Prophet_ article, on Wednesday, the thirtieth day of July, a team of Aurors was dispatched to Number four, Privet Drive for the use of an Unforgivable Curse. Apparently, Privet Drive was Haven Potter’s last known location,” Magnus tells her, tapping his wand rapidly against his cheek.

“But she wasn’t there when the Aurors arrived?” Zena asks curiously.

“That certainly seems to be the case. But her wand was there, and there was no evidence of an Unforgivable Curse on it when they used Priori Incantatem. And besides, she went missing the day before her seventeenth birthday; if it had been Haven who cast the spell, the Trace would have indicated as much when the DMLE first got the notice. Besides, everyone who knew her admitted that Haven might use dark-classified spells, but she’d never have used an Unforgivable. And, according to this -” he slides a sheaf of parchment over the _Daily Prophet_ article “- there was no one around who was reported as missing. All her relatives were out of the house, though the Aurors interviewed them later on, and they were asked to notify the DMLE if Haven ever showed back up. None of the neighbours mentioned anyone or anything having gone missing; in fact, there was an uncommon lack of missing persons reports filed that week. The general consensus reached was that Haven was dead.”

“Which we know to be true,” Zena agrees. “But none of this gives us any clue about who might’ve killed her.”

“But,” Magnus interjects, “it tells us who _might_ know. And, luckily, it’s a weekend. I bet if we ask McGonagall for permission, we could do some investigating so long as we’re back by Sunday evening.”

“I suppose,” she agrees tentatively. “Our workload isn’t unbearable yet; we might as well make the most of our free time. But who are we going to ask?”

Magnus grins toothily at her. “The residents of Number four, Privet Drive.”

* * *

“I’m sorry,” the young woman says, looking quite taken aback by their intrusion, “but I don't think I’ve ever even heard the name Haven Potter. Are you certain you have the right house?”

“Yes,” Zena tells her. “This is the right house. It looks like we’ve just gotten here a few years too late.”

“Do you know who the previous owners of this establishment were?” Magnus asks the woman, who twists her mouth thoughtfully.

“Wait right here. Let me see if I can find the papers from when we bought our house.” She closes the door softly, and Zena and Magnus can hear her walking away down the hall. They exchange glances.

“Maybe we should have found out who her guardians were before coming here,” Zena says. “We probably could have looked them up and figured out where they live now instead of going on a wild niffler chase.”

Magnus curls his lip. “Don’t you mean a wild goose chase?”

“I meant what I said!” she sniffs haughtily. “Besides, I’ve heard some of the Purebloods say it before, and it makes sense, anyhow. Nifflers are crafty creatures.”

“Zena, _no one_ says that. One of the Purebloods must have been pulling your leg, okay. That phrase has never been in use because Wixen have geese, too, and so they’ve just stuck to the traditional phrasing.”

Zena rolls her eyes. Clearly Magnus has been too focused on his studies to spend any time learning the colloquialisms of the magical world.

“And even if it were in use,” Magnus continues obliviously, “it should be a Demiguise, not a Niffler, because Demiguises are -”

“Able to turn invisible, yes, I know,” Zena interrupts just before the front door opens again.

“According to this,” the young woman tells them softly, looking between Magnus and Zena with a curiosity that they ignore, “Mr Vernon Dursley was the previous owner, though they moved out back in ninety-eight. It looks like the Dursleys rented this house out for several years before finally deciding to sell.”

“Brilliant!” Zena exclaims. “Mr Dursley is precisely who my friend and I are looking for. You…” she breaks off suddenly, “you wouldn’t happen to have any contact information on there, would you?”

“No, sorry,” she replies apologetically.

“That’s alright,” Magnus reassures her. “We’ll find it some other way. Thanks so much for your assistance.” He offers her a charming smile, which the woman returns, and then he and Zena walk back down the drive.

* * *

“Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice,” Zena tells Vernon, who looks very different than she remembers for reasons she cannot quite place.

“Certainly,” Vernon returns graciously. “May I ask what this is about?”

“Well, sir,” she looks at his face, which is curious and non-threatening, “my friend and I, we’re trying to find out what happened to Haven Potter. We - we thought you might have some information for us?” She cannot help the way her voice pitches up at the end; Vernon’s face looks as though it has been carved with glass, with all its sharp edges bleeding and carved by heartbreak.

Vernon swallows roughly. “How do you know about her?”

“She’s famous in our world,” Magnus offers.

Vernon scoffs. “I _know_ that. But there are plenty of people in your world who know about her, and none of them have come to ask about her since - since she… disappeared.”

Zena looks at Magnus, who shrugs. “Is it safe to speak about… _private_ matters here, or would elsewhere be better?” she asks Vernon.

“Normally I’d say here is fine,” Vernon says, visibly pulling himself together, “but the work day is almost over, and I have a feeling that Petunia would be furious if she wasn’t part of this conversation. If you’ll just give me a moment to confirm with her that it’s alright, this conversation might be best over dinner, if that’s okay with you.”

“I don’t mind that,” Zena says, and Magnus nods his agreement. “Would you like us to step out while you make the call, or…?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Vernon replies, looking relieved.

Zena and Magnus step outside as soon as Vernon starts dialing Petunia.

“Are you really gonna tell them about yourself and what we’re trying to do?” Magnus asks harshly, his voice quiet. “Do you realise how dangerous that could be? We aren’t supposed to talk to Muggles about magic, you remember that, right?”

“Yes, yes, and yes, Magnus,” she replies coolly. “I understand where you’re coming from. I do. But the Dursleys were her relatives; they - probably more than anyone - deserve to know what happened to her. And it could be dangerous, because they’re Muggles, but they’re also the Muggles who raised _Haven Potter.”_

“And she _died_ while she was living with them!” he hisses.

“The Durselys are Muggles.” Magnus flinches at her tone, refusing to meet her eyes. “We both know that whoever killed Haven used Avada Kedavra; I have the memory to prove it. That automatically rules them out, alright? Because they _can’t use magic!_ Use your brain, Magnus. _”_

Magnus bites his lip to hold back his retort, and Zena is grateful for it. She turns away from her best friend just as the door to Vernon’s office opens and he steps out, briefcase in hand. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Do you… have a way to get there? Or will you be riding with me?”

“What would you prefer we do?” Zena queries.

“If at all possible, I would feel more comfortable if you found some other form of transportation. I just need some time to… process things. If you two don’t mind, of course.”

“No that’s perfectly alright,” she reassures him. “We completely understand. It’s always nice to have time to yourself after a grueling day at work. We’ll figure out a way to get there. We just need the address, if you don’t mind?”

Vernon gives it to them on the walk to his car, and he opens the door before looking at them with a knowing glint in his eyes. “If you happen to arrive before me, feel free to knock on the door. Petunia should be there to let you in.” With that, he closes the door, turns the key in the ignition, and drives away.

“What the hell could he possibly need to process?” Magnus demands. “We haven’t even _told_ him anything yet, Zeen.”

Zena sighs. “Imagine that a family member that you love died, Mag. And you don’t know what happened to them, and while you care a whole lot, it doesn’t seem like anyone else does because no one will _talk_ to you about them, and everyone just kind of forgets about you and the fact that you’ve lost someone. And then imagine that it’s been years since you’ve had to think about everything you _don’t know_ about that person, and two random kids you’ve never seen before in your life bring them back up out of the blue. And you’ve got no idea what’s going on, except that somehow someone cares enough to seek you out, but you don’t know what their motives are? What would _you_ do?”

“I’d stop imagining,” Magnus smirks.

“Don’t be a smart-arse,” she commands. “I’m serious. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for Vernon to want some time alone before he has to hear what we’ve got to say.”

* * *

“Welcome,” Petunia says, looking as prim and proper as her voice suggests; her blonde hair is threaded through with subtle silver strands, but it is otherwise as immaculate as ever, and neatly coiffed; she has faint hints of make-up: dark brown mascara accenting the eyelashes fringing her green eyes, pale lipstick lined neatly in a slightly darker nude shade; her pantsuit is in a modest cut, the chocolatey tones of it complimenting her hair and eyes. “I’ve just set the table. Please follow me.”

She leads them into the dining room, where there are five places set, and indicates their seats. “Now, I’m afraid I don’t know your names. Vernon forgot to mention them over the phone when we were making arrangements.”

Zena and Magnus exchange glances. “I don’t know if we ever introduced ourselves to him! I’m Zena Sinclair. This is my friend Magnus Gaunt.”

Petunia frowns slightly before her face smooths out. “No matter. Now, Vernon should be arriving soon. And, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve extended an invitation to my son, Dudley, as well. Vernon mentioned that you wanted to speak about Haven, and Dudley was always quite fond of her, you know.”

“Of course we don’t mind,” Zena exclaims, elbowing Magnus roughly until he agrees. “Dudley deserves to be a part of this conversation as much as you and Mr Dursley do.”

Petunia’s lips curl amusedly. “Well, why don’t the two of you take a seat while we wait for the others to arrive.” They sit down at the table, and Petunia bustles off towards what Zena assumes is the kitchen.

Only a few moments pass before they hear the sound of the door swinging open; two sets of footsteps move down the hallway to the dining room. Vernon and Dudley have just sat down when Petunia comes back into the room carrying two large dishes with her. She sets them on the table and sinks into her own chair and serves herself.

The beginning of the meal is stilted and awkward; superficial small-talk filters through the room between bites of the delicious food Petunia prepared. Vernon shifts in his seat and clears his throat, and Zena finds herself impressed that he managed to last as long as he did.

“So. How do you know about Haven?” he asks, reiterating his query from the office.

Zena looks down at her hands, flicking her gaze towards Magnus, who appears to be completely unsympathetic. She scowls at him, but he only rolls his eyes in reply. “In the magical world,” Zena begins hesitantly, watching as all three Dursleys put down their silverware and watch her curiously, “there is an uncommon phenomenon.” She chews on the side of her tongue nervously. “It’s. Um. It’s reincarnation. Only, it’s not reincarnation like you might think of it; it’s not like a person who’s died is reborn into a new body with all their memories intact. At least… that’s not how it is for me.”

The Dursleys look at her in disbelief, and Zena suddenly realises that this explanation is going to be much more difficult than she originally expected.

“What I’m trying to say,” she blunders on, “is that I am a reincarnated soul. Specifically, I am Haven Potter’s reincarnation.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Vernon growls with more hostility than she’s ever heard from him. “We may not have magic, Miss Sinclair, but my family and I are not completely stupid, nor are we completely oblivious to the way your world works. What does your Ministry call it? Muggle-Baiting?”

“I - yes. But. I’m not trying to play a prank on you. I swear. Truly, I am telling you the truth.” She looks at Magnus for help, but he only shrugs at her helplessly.

“Prove it,” Dudley says softly. “Prove you’re really Haven.”

Zena doesn’t even bother trying to explain that Haven’s memories don’t work that way; she can see now that she went about this whole thing all wrong, though she doesn’t quite understand why. “You gave her _The Hobbit_ for her eleventh birthday present,” she tries, but Dudley looks unimpressed.

“Everyone knew she loved _The Hobbit_ , especially because of the Dragon. Try again.”

“She called you Big D.”

“So did a lot of people,” he retorts flatly.

“You,” she tells Vernon, “told her that if Malfoy apologised, she should accept it and move on, and she promised to think about it. I doubt any of you were surprised to hear that she didn’t.” Vernon’s expression softens slightly, and so she continues. “Dudley, she vanished your plate of food, sometimes, when she was feeling particularly sulky. And,” she continues without waiting for his agreement, “she always needed her aunt’s help packing, especially the day she went off to Hogwarts the first time.”

“Haven always was a bit scatter-brained when it came to packing,” Petunia says fondly.

“She was always a cantankerous little prat when we were younger,” Dudley mutters.

“So, if we’re to believe your little details,” Vernon says, looking as though he might actually believe her now, “you are the reincarnation of our niece. That doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

Zena takes a deep breath. “Well, since _I’m_ here, that means that she’s dead. Obviously, a great many people thought that. I guess it would have been out of character for her to run away without saying a word about it. But I met with a Shaman and a Telepath who confirmed that I was Haven once upon a time, and after that meeting, I had a… memory in the form of a nightmare, and it proved that Haven was murdered.”

“Wasn’t that what your magical police thought in the first place?” Petunia asks, looking only mildly interested. “They said something about a Killing Curse being cast, and that it wasn’t from Haven’s wand…” she trails off, looking at them.

“That was what the general public agreed happened, yes,” Magnus breaks in, “but there were still some people who were convinced that Haven had just disappeared. I guess because it’s easier to think that your friend or your saviour or whatever is on an extended sabbatical, having not sent any word for years, than it is to accept that she’s dead, even when all the evidence indicates that the latter is true.”

“Mag, you have to remember that Haven’s body was missing when the Aurors arrived. That alone is enough to inspire hope in a person.”

“But if you know for sure that Haven is dead,” Dudley says, looking confused, “why are you here? We already knew she was dead, even with her body missing. You didn’t need to come and tell us. You didn’t need to dig everything -” he turns his face away, though not before Zena sees how glossy his eyes have become “- you didn’t need to drag all the emotions back up again to give us your screwed up idea of closure, alright?”

“I - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It’s just. I just wanted to figure out who did it. I wanted to try to bring them to justice. And. Well. I thought you might be able to help us figure out who did it.”

“If your Aurors couldn’t figure it out, even with all the information we tried to give them, why do you think you’d be able to figure it out?” Dudley asks harshly.

“Because reincarnation isn’t just some random thing! Nine times out of ten, a reincarnated soul has unfinished business that requires a physical body to carry out, otherwise they’d just come back as ghosts.”

“You said nine times out of ten,” Dudley observes. “But have you ever considered that this is that tenth time where you’ve been reincarnated _just because?_ Sometimes the world works in unexpected ways, kid. Sometimes we lose our keys, or break an arm; sometimes we’re born with magic, and sometimes we’re reborn with a desire for revenge. But sometimes, kid, _sometimes_ being reincarnated is just reincarnation. Sometimes one family loses a loved one, and another family gains one, and maybe there’re some cosmic forces at work, but maybe the world is unpredictable and it’s just picked Haven Potter and Zena Sinclair to be its unfortunate victims. Sometimes, Zena, things happen for no other reason than they just happen, okay? Sometimes things are exactly as they appear, and there’s no hidden meaning in the way the world turns. Sometimes a death is just a death, and a life is just a life, and that’s okay.”

“And sometimes a death is a life because there’s something rotten in the state of Britain,” she disagrees vehemently.

Dudley sighs and leans back in his seat, folding his hands over his stomach. “What do you want to know?” he asks resignedly.

Zena sits forward eagerly. “On the day she died, did Haven mention anything about expecting anyone to come over?”

It is Petunia who answers. “No. That was the summer after Haven finally defeated Voldemort. She didn’t talk to anyone; she spent days on end just sitting in her room, staring at the walls or the ceiling. She never cried where we could see, I don’t think. She lost several friends during the war, or that’s the way it always seemed, and so she spent the summer grieving. Nothing we did could drag her out of it.”

Zena frowns, before asking: “Do you know if she had any enemies after the war?”

“Well there were all those Death Eaters, weren’t there?” Vernon asks. “Haven seemed like she was well-liked at her school, but I’m sure there’ve been plenty of people who’ve had it out for her since she was a baby. It seems like that’s the way your world works a great deal of the time.”

Magnus’ thoughtful hum draws her attention. He shakes his head slowly. “If I remember correctly, the vast majority of the Death Eaters were captured after the final battle. Some of them turned themselves in, and some fled the country; the Ministry was actually on top of shite for once, and they managed to crank out and convict a ton of the Death Eaters before July even began. Those they hadn’t gotten to at that point were waiting in holding cells, or they’d managed to pay bail, but they weren’t able to leave their homes.”

“Did she kill anyone during the battle? Besides Voldemort, I mean. Maybe someone wanted revenge,” Zena suggests.

Magnus shrugs. “If she did, I don’t know about it, but we can try to do some research when we get back to Hogwarts.”

“If you know she was murdered,” Petunia says thoughtfully, “why can’t you remember who did it?”

“In the memory,” Zena explains, “the person was behind her. She couldn’t turn around fast enough to see who it was. But the voice was familiar, I think.”

“Male or female?” Vernon enquires.

“It sounded male. But that doesn’t really mean anything. We’ve got Polyjuice Potion, and spells and potions that change your voice. It could be literally anybody.”

Dudley groans. “Haven always said that magic made things easier, but it’s beginning to sound like it just makes everything more difficult than it needs to be. Anyways, I’ve got a long drive, and I’d like to get home tonight. I haven’t seen Gemma at all today, and she’s working tomorrow.”

“The poor dear,” Petunia sympathises. “Say hello to her for us, alright darling?”

“Alright, Mum. I’ll see you next weekend.”

“Drive safe,” Vernon grumbles.

“Love you too, Dad,” Dudley says. He nods to Magnus and Zena, and makes his way out of the dining room. Zena hears the front door open and close again shortly thereafter.

“I suppose we’d better head out, too,” she muses. “I told Mum and Dad that we’d be spending the night, Mag, so they’ve probably made up a room for you.” She turns to Vernon and Petunia. “Thank you for the lovely meal, and for tolerating our intrusive and insensitive questions. You’ve been a great help, and we really appreciate it.”

“Certainly,” Petunia replies. “It was no trouble at all.”

“Do you want us to let you know if we find anything?” Zena asks curiously.

Vernon and Petunia exchange a brief glance. “No,” Vernon says with certainty. “I think we’re both tired of being sad and angry about Haven’s death. We don’t need to know who did it because it doesn’t bring her back. Thank you, though.”

“Alright. Well, have a pleasant evening.”

“Thank you again for the food,” Magnus adds.

Petunia walks them to the front door, telling them that she enjoyed their company, though both Zena and Magnus can tell that she is lying. They wait until she has closed the door behind them to summon the Knight Bus.

* * *

Yumiko and Aindrea Sinclair greet Zena and Magnus enthusiastically, ushering them inside their cosy cottage.

“It’s so good to have you home, darling,” Zena’s mum says happily. “I feel like it’s been ages since I saw you last.”

Zena laughs slightly. “Mum, I send you letters every week. You can’t have been missing me that much!”

Yumiko smiles softly. “You know that I do, darling.”

She’s right, too. Zena does know that her mother misses her while she is off at Hogwarts, but it is always difficult to focus on little things like homesickness, or missing her parents, when she is in a school that teaches her _magic._

“Don’t you have Zyan to keep you company, Mum?”

“Most days,” Yumiko confirms. “But it is Friday, you know, and so he’s over at a friend’s for the weekend. I’m glad you’re here; your father has to go in to work tomorrow, even though it’s a Saturday,” she looks at Aindrea witheringly, “and Zyan’s away. But you and Magnus will be here, so I won’t be as lonely as I expected.”

Aindrea wraps an arm around Yumiko’s waist and leans down to press a chaste kiss to her lips. “You _know_ that you don’t mind too terribly when I’m off at work, baby. When I’m not here, it’s nice and quiet, and it leaves room for your imaginings and stories.”

Yumiko sniffs. “I’m just saying that you’re a workaholic, love, that’s all.”

Aindrea smirks at her. “Are you feeling neglected, Yumi? I’ll do my very best to make up for it.”

“Oh?” Zena’s mum asks.

Zena grabs Magnus’ hand and pulls him away from her parents, hoping to make a quick getaway. She groans miserably when they don’t manage to outrun her father’s reply.

“Yeah, baby. I’ll sing your praises. I’ve been told I have a way with my tongue.”

“I can honestly say that I have never wanted to hear your parents flirting, Zeen,” Magnus tells her with a slight whine.

“You think I _do?”_ she demands.

“Well,” Magnus says delicately, closing the door behind them and sitting at the foot of her bed, “it’s always nice to know your parents still love each other.”

“That’s true enough,” Zena agrees. “I’m going to bed now. Your room is down the hall, so go take up space there.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude
> 
> or: Yumiko Sinclair cannot help noticing anymore.

_To the highest bidder, secrets are sold,_

_And to curious ears, stories are told._

_They say: man and wife can live in lust,_

_But there will be no love if there is no trust._

* * *

She starts paying more attention after Professor McGonagall visits them with Zena’s invitation to Hogwarts. She tries asking Aindrea if his family has any magical ancestors; he is tense at first, though she decides that that has more to do with the fact that she prefaces her question with the words “I need to ask you something,” than it has to do with _what_ she asks.

He relaxes almost immediately after the words leave her lips. “As far as I know, my side of the family is non-magical,” he tells her, chuckling slightly, like the thought amuses him. “You’re sure it’s not from your side, Yumiko?”

She shakes her head. “I suppose it could be, but I certainly don’t know anything about it.”

Aindrea hums thoughtfully, but says nothing in reply. She falls asleep waiting for a response that never comes.

After that, she starts paying more attention to what’s going on within her family. Of course, she can’t keep as close an eye on Zena, who is gone more often than not, and though she sends letters from school each week, it’s not the same as having her at home. But then her daughter hasn’t _really_ been home for over four years, and Yumiko rather thinks her son will be going the same way. Zyan, too, requires less attention than Yumiko first thinks. He’s just recently turned eleven, and though he hasn’t received a letter yet, he - like Zena - spends more time _away_ from home than _at_ it.

She doesn’t think that either Zena or Zyan _dislike_ being at home, but she wonders, sometimes, because they’re always somewhere else, even when they’re physically present. She wonders, sometimes, late at night, if the fact that she doesn’t fight harder to keep her children close - if the fact that she doesn’t fight for their attention or affection or love - makes her a bad mother. She never _asks_ anyone, of course, but she thinks about it every now and then. She never manages to come up with the right answer, and it’s not a question she wants to ask in the presence of others when she’s already asked it in the privacy of her own mind.

Once she starts paying attention, it’s Aindrea who requires the most observance. And isn’t that funny: the oldest one in their little family of four is the one who needs to be watched. When she finally mentions anything to him, it is a question that she has asked the mirror and revised again and again because she doesn’t want to seem accusatory when she finally asks him; when she finally asks him, she’s got six years of peculiarities as evidence, plus her conversation from that first meeting with McGonagall to draw on. Maybe she’s seeing things, or imagining them. Maybe she’s looking for things to poke at, when there’s nothing there at all. Yumiko has accused herself of all of it, and has asked herself if she’s subconsciously trying to break their family. She doesn’t think so. She’s not intending to shatter the people she loves most in the world, and she hopes that’s not what ends up happening.

So she starts paying attention, and it’s little things. Aindrea is discreet, and he’s cautious. She wants to think that he’s careful enough that no one would notice, even if they _were_ looking for something, unless they know him well. 

So it’s little things: it’s increasingly more notes lying around the flat. She flips through one of the wads, once, when Aindrea isn’t home, and it adds up to just over five-hundred pounds. After discovering these, she heads to their bank, just to make sure, and sure enough, their account balance is the same. The only deposits are the bi-weekly ones from Aindreas’ office job, and the meagre cheques that Yumiko has deposited from her various odd jobs. There aren’t any unusual deposits, nor are there any odd withdrawals; their taxes are all up to date, when she bothers to check, so there’s nothing unusual on that front.

There are other things, too, like how he’s away from home more often than he used to be. She supposes that whatever he’s caught up in can have more priority now that their children are older. His absences aren’t even particularly strange; he always has an excuse - a meeting with his boss, or with clients, or going out for lunch with an old friend. He always makes time for her, too. She doesn’t feel as though he loves her less, or like he has less time for her. At least, she doesn’t until she wakes up one night to find his side of the bed empty; the sheets are cold, and so she gets up. She’s a bit worried. She can’t think of what might have him out of bed so late at night. He’s not anywhere in the house at all, in fact, and when she makes her way outside, wrapping her terry-cloth robe tighter around her body to fend off the cold, Aindrea is nowhere to be found. She goes back inside and sinks into his favorite chair with a glass of warm milk. She watches the door awhile, and then picks up the crime novel she’s been reading. She yawns a bit later, and her eyes droop, but Aindrea still isn’t home; she uses her thumb to spin her wedding ring around her finger, wondering where he is. Perhaps he’d gotten a call from a friend who needed help, and she’s worrying over nothing.

She wakes up in her own bed the next morning, Aindrea’s arm draped across her waist. Her robe and slippers are in the same place they always are, and when she heads downstairs to start breakfast, her milk glass is nowhere to be found. She looks in the cupboard, and there are rows of clean glasses there, none of them out of place. She frowns slightly. The kitchen is exactly how she’d left it before she and Aindrea had gone to bed last night, and she starts to wonder. Perhaps it had been a dream.

“What are you thinking about?” Aindrea asks her, coming up to stand behind her. He wraps his arms around her waist and rests his chin on the top of her head. She leans back into him and sighs.

“I thought I woke up last night and you were gone,” she tells him thoughtfully. “I was waiting for you. But it seems like it was just a dream.”

Aindrea hums and leans down a bit to kiss her cheek, and moves into the kitchen to help her with breakfast.

It really was a very vivid dream, she realises a few days later. She finally has some free time on her hands to read, and so she picks up the crime novel she’s been reading. She has a sense of deja vu; she’s certain she’s already read this bit, but it’s the same page she’d been on before that dream. Perhaps she’s just gotten so into the book that she was able to predict what would happen next while she was dreaming. It certainly isn’t the first time a few pages have seemed awfully familiar, though she knows she’s never read them.

As is his wont, Aindrea comes home with a new piece of jewelry for her. It is an elegant piece of work, the silver metal intricately woven and holding tiny, multi-faceted green gems. He walks through the front door, and catches sight of her where she’s standing at the sink in jeans, a cotton shirt, and a stained apron. He takes her hand in his and draws her close to him, spinning her around, and then they are dancing through every room in the house. Aindrea dips her back so far that her hair touches the floor, and Yumiko raises her arm high above her head while he ducks down and twirls wildly, almost losing his balance, and then the two of them are racing up the steps in dramatic movements, hand in hand, hand on waist, hand on shoulder, until they reach the balcony at the top, where they slump down against the wall, their legs stretched out in front of them, leaning against each other, breathless and laughing.

“Yumiko,” he tells her once he’s caught his breath. She looks up at him, marvelling at the fact that he looks almost the same as he did when they first met. It’s been almost eighteen years, and his hair is still red, his eyes still bright and clear when they light up to match the dimples pressing into his freckled cheeks in a smile. “I have something for you.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, and he reaches into the pocket of his slacks, pulling out something delicate and silvery that pools gracefully in the palm of his hand. He frowns down at it, and picks at it carefully, untangling the pliable metal. He holds it up for her to admire, and it glitters underneath the ceiling lights.

“It’s beautiful,” she tells him.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he replies, leaning forward to kiss her briefly.

“Put it on me?”

“Of course.” He gestures for her to turn around, and she scoots forward, facing away from him. He settles her hair over her shoulder and reaches around her, letting the necklace rest against her collarbones. The metal is cool, and she shivers when it touches her skin.

“That was cold,” she tells him reproachfully.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and leans forward to brush his lips against the back of her neck. He hooks the piece carefully, his elegant fingers sliding across her skin as he does so. She can feel the warmth of his breath. He pulls her hair out from beneath the necklace, letting it tumble down her back again. His hands trace the lines of her shoulders before falling away. “Turn around? I want to see how it looks on you.”

She turns, and he nods in satisfaction, his lips quirking at the sight of it glinting against the pale gold of her skin. He steps forward to draw his fingertips across the silver, his callouses setting her nerves alight. “ _Now_ it’s beautiful,” he says, looking down at her.

So it’s little things. It’s things so small that she’d never have thought twice about them if she hadn’t been looking. It’s the extra money hidden in their house, the normalcy of their bank account, the mysterious absences, the flawless explanations, the - when she takes it to a jeweler out of curiosity - obscenely expensive jewelry. On their own, these things aren’t suspicious. Even put together, they’re hardly cause for worry, but she can’t get it out of her head.

Once she starts thinking about it, she starts noticing things. Or, more accurately, she starts wondering about things that have been part of her life for nearly two decades. She’s always thought that Aindrea’s parents don’t approve of her, and now she wonders if it’s because they know what Aindrea is caught up in, and think she can’t handle it. She tells herself she’s being stupid; she’s never been good at reading people, so maybe they like her, and they’re just aloof, or maybe they simply believe she’s not good enough for their son. Maybe Aindrea isn’t caught up in anything at all, and she’s just reading too far into things.

She reminds herself that she’s not nearly as clever as the detectives in the novels she reads so often.

She lets it go for a while - years, really - and tries not to pick at things, but once she starts looking, it’s hard to stop. She realises one day that she doesn’t know what, exactly, Aindrea does for a living. She knows it’s an office job of some sort, but that could mean anything, really. She feels like she’s a terrible wife when she realises that she doesn’t even know what her own husband does for a living. She tries to remember if he’s ever mentioned the specifics of his job, but all she can recall are vague deflections whenever they strayed too close to the topic.

It’s little things, hardly noticeable. But once she _does_ start noticing, it’s hard to stop, and suddenly all these little things pile up into a huge thing, and she doesn’t know what it _is._ She and Aindrea have built a relationship and gotten married and birthed and raised children on a secret she didn’t even realise existed.

Yumiko mulls it over for weeks before she says anything, and during that period of time, Aindrea asks her more than once if something is wrong. At least they know each other well enough that they can tell when something is off. But then, if she’s right in thinking that there’s _something,_ she’s not the one who’s been keeping secrets; it makes sense that Aindrea can tell that something’s wrong, because she’s not the one hiding things.

“Do you trust me?” she asks him at dinner one night. Maybe he doesn’t, and that’s why he’s never told her about whatever he’s hiding.

Aindrea looks up at her. He sets his fork back onto his plate, frowning slightly. His eyebrows furrow when he frowns, she notices; Yumiko doesn’t think she’s ever realised that before. She wonders what else she’s been missing. “Of course I do,” he tells her, and she knows him well enough to know that he’s telling the truth.

She offers no explanation for her question, even when he asks for one. She is too caught up in her own thoughts. Trust is not a problem, then. Maybe she really _is_ imagining everything. Maybe she’s paranoid because of one conversation she had years ago with a woman she hasn’t seen since. Maybe she’s just ignorant.

“Aindrea,” she says one rainy morning, when Zena and her friend are still fast asleep upstairs, and he pauses with his hand on the door handle. She has decided to admit her ignorance so that she can stop being so suspicious all the time. “What do you do for work?”

He turns around slowly, his hand falling to his side, and shrugs off his coat. He sits down across from her, leaning forward with his elbows balanced on his knees and his fingers laced. He smiles at her, and unfolds himself to lean back in his chair. He crosses an ankle over his knee. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask,” he tells her.

“I didn’t know there was something I was supposed to be asking.”

“Then why are you asking now?”

“I’ve been thinking about something Zena’s professor said when she first visited us. I’ve been thinking about it for years, really, and I started noticing things.”

“And what have you been noticing?”

“Little things. Extra money in odd places around the house, your practiced excuses for meetings after work. How immaculate our bank account is, and how prompt our taxes are, and the fact that you shouldn’t be able to afford the jewelry you buy me on your income.”

He grins at her. “And what did Zena’s professor say that got you to start noticing all this?”

Yumiko shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “She mentioned that someone in her family ran a crime ring, and that they were well-off because of it. She said that that side of her family was kind of secretive, and after that I just couldn’t stop drawing parallels. I couldn’t stop wondering, but there’s no conclusive evidence.”

Aindrea tilts his head. “Even without conclusive evidence, I think you know the answer to your wonderings.”

She remembers the night she’d dreamed that Aindrea was gone, and all the meetings he’d had after the kids had both started school. “That night,” she says tentatively, “when I woke up and you were gone? That wasn’t a dream, was it? That really happened? And I fell asleep waiting for you?”

Aindrea has the decency to look slightly ashamed. “Yes. I carried you back up to bed and put everything away. I’ve wanted you to find out for years, but I’ve also been… afraid of what might happen if you did.”

“How did you know what page to put my book back to?”

He gives her an amused glance. “I deal in information. It’s my job to know things. And you’re my wife. I may not always _do_ what you say, but I do _listen_ to what you say. You always tell me what’s happened in the book you’re reading.”

“I really thought that was a dream! You told me it was a dream, Aindrea.”

“No, I didn’t. _You_ said it was a dream; I just never corrected you. Believe it or not, I do make a point to not out and out lie to you, Yumiko.”

“And what do you call telling me that you have an office job?” she hisses, suddenly furious. “What is that if not a lie, when you’re really part of -” she breaks off, lowering her voice to a whisper; this isn’t something either of them want someone overhearing “- a _crime ring?_ ”

He chuckles, and Yumiko scowls at him. “That’s not a lie, Yumi. I _do_ work in an office. It’s our cover, and it’s legal; it’s how I get a great deal of my information, actually, given that I collect intelligence. So I do work in an office, like I told you, but it’s a job that encourages my… extracurriculars.”

“Fine. So you weren’t lying.” She can see that he knows that she’s not happy about not having been told about his activities in the first place.

“Think of it as me giving you plausible deniability.”

She gives him the look that always manages to get Zena and Zyan to fall in line. She is glad to see that it works on him, too.

“Okay, okay. I should have told you before we got married,” he relents.

“Yes. You should have.”

“I just worried that you wouldn’t marry me if you knew.”

She grants him a baleful look. “Clearly you aren’t half as good at collecting intelligence as you seem to think. Of course I would have married you. I love you, you twit. And that doesn’t excuse the fact that you didn’t tell me until I asked you about it.”

The look he gives her is reminiscent of the ones Zyan contorts his face into when she catches him doing something he shouldn’t: it is all big, pleading eyes. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ll tell you next time. Forgive me?”

“Of course. And you’d better. I’m not fond of secrets, Aindrea; if there’s anything else you need to tell me, now would be a good time.”

“And if I don’t?”

Yumiko arches a dark eyebrow at him, leans back in her seat, and crosses one leg daintily over the other. “I assure you that I’m plenty creative enough to make you regret it. I’m sure you can figure out what I mean, since you claim to be so good at collecting intelligence.”

He swallows and unbuttons his shirt collar. She watches in satisfaction as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Um, yes. I understand, Yumiko. There’s nothing else I can think of at the moment.” He clears his throat, shifting again.

She smiles serenely at him, and her words are syrupy sweet. “I’m so glad we’ve reached an accord, darling.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hopefully the culprit is a little bit of a surprise. 
> 
> I just want to thank everyone who's taken the time to leave kudos and whatnot; it means a lot :)
> 
> As per usual, this chapter is not edited, and I don't have a beta; I'll read it over at some point to try and catch any mistakes I've left behind.
> 
> Enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think!

_The memories you have are a patchwork quilt_

_Full of people drowning in fear and guilt._

_The fragments you own are water-marked and torn,_

_And detail occurrences that should never have been borne._

_Your last recollection is a familiar face,_

_And your pain and betrayal were buried in lace._

* * *

“That,” Zena observes, looking over Magnus’ shoulder suspiciously, “is _not_ our Herbology homework.”

“Oh, well spotted,” he replies sarcastically. “I wasn’t sure if I needed to be more discreet to prevent a Troll from catching on, but you have thankfully confirmed that that is not the case.”

Zena rolls her eyes. “I don’t need your back talk, Mag. I just want to know what you’re doing, alright?”

“I’m looking through the death records of the final battle. I think you might’ve been onto something when you mentioned revenge. Think about it: someone’s parents or siblings or friends were killed. Maybe Haven was the one to kill them, even. That person might want revenge. And if they don’t, then maybe someone used Polyjuice. You said yourself that the voice was familiar; I’m starting to think that this is either a revenge killing, or disguised as a revenge killing, which might narrow down our culprits.”

Zena sits down beside him. “And have you had any luck so far?”

“Not really,” he mutters. “A lot of people died during the final battle. Here, look.” He shoves his parchment at her, and she peruses the list of names he’s compiled. “These are just the people who died _during_ the battle, and no one really knows who killed whom because battles are absolute chaos.”

“Alright,” Zena says patiently. “But... look,” she points to the names _Albus Dumbledore,_ and _Aries Black,_ and _Violet Evans,_ among others, “you don’t need these names on there. They were on Haven’s side of the war. She wouldn’t have killed them because they’d’ve been helping her. I’m sure they’re not the only ones who don’t belong on the list just because of that. Here, I’ll help you sort through the names so that we’re only doing Death Eaters.”

They spend several hours going through the names of the dead, adding some to their list and bypassing others. By the time they have finished compiling their catalog, it is dinnertime. Zena and Magnus make their way down from the library to the Great Hall, where they both sit at the Hufflepuff table.

“Why is Voldemort on this list?” Zena hisses.

“I was just being thorough. I’m sure there’re plenty of people who’d have wanted revenge on Haven for having killed their mascot.”

“I thought we’d ruled out the actual Death Eaters, but whatever. Avery,” she mutters, reading down Magnus’ side of the list, “Carrow, Carrow, by the way, Mag, your handwriting is terrible. Crabbe, Crouch, Dolohov, blah, blah, blah, wait.”

Magnus looks up at her curiously. “Yes? I can barely contain my anticipation, Zeen.”

Zena rolls her eyes at him. “Who is Lazarus Warrington?”

“Dunno,” Magnus shrugs. Zena glares at him. “Look, Zeen, I really have no clue who this Lazarus fellow is, alright? We’ll go back to the Library and look in the Pure-blood Registry or something, and then I’ll be able to tell you. Merlin, can you stop looking at me like you want to murder me?”

“Sorry,” she says, looking down at her food and pushing it around with her fork. “I just want to find out who did it so that this can all be over with, you know? I don’t mean to be so snappy, Mag. You don’t deserve it, not least because you’ve been helping me.”

Magnus sighs. “Look, Zena. I get it. Or, I understand that this is frustrating. I’m trying to help, but you keep jumping down my throat about everything and that makes my job harder. Just… try to cut me some slack here, okay? Relax a little. She’s been dead for sixteen years and no one’s figured out who killed her. Waiting a little bit longer isn’t going to change anything.”

“Okay. Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry, again. I’ve been a right arse this past week, and you’ve been very patient with me.”

“Just call me Helga Hufflepuff.”

Zena snorts. “Hufflepuff was _not_ a patient person. You might've noticed that patience is not one of the things the Sorting Hat mentions in its songs when my House comes up. But seriously, Magnus, you’re a really good friend.”

“Thanks,” he says, ducking his head in embarrassment.

* * *

“Lazarus Warrington. Where are you?” Magnus murmurs, running his finger down the names in the Pure-blood Registry. “Mmmm... Umbridge, Volant, Wallis, Warner, Warrington. Alessio, Caspian, Cassius, Dion, Flora, Jasper, Lazarus! Alright, so I tap my wand like… so…” he trails off, watching as the list of names disappears and the ink rewrites itself into a short biography about Lazarus Warrington.

“Former Death Eater,” Zena reads aloud. “First-born son to Alessio Warrington and Salis Flint. Older brother to Cassius Warrington. Hold up, Cassius was one of her friends. And he was the first person I remembered after meeting. D’you think...?”

“It’s certainly possible. But that doesn’t answer the question about _why.”_

“So - hear me out - what if we asked him?”

“Excuse me?” Magnus looks at her in disbelief. “Can you repeat that? I thought I heard you say _what if we asked him,_ but I know you didn’t _really_ say that, because that would be the most _imbecilic_ idea you’ve _ever_ had!”

Zena offers him a weak smile. “No. That’s what I said. You heard me right.”

“Are you daft? You’re bloody crazy! You want to ask the person we suspect might be responsible for Haven’s death - _your_ death, because like it or not, you share the same soul, and you have her memories - if he _murdered_ her, and if he _did_ , you want to ask him _why_?”

“Er. Yes. That - that was my plan.” She eyes him carefully. “I take it you’re not a fan?”

“Not a -” he scoffs, and buries his face in his arms. “Not a fan!” he finishes, his voice muffled by the sleeves of his robes. His shoulders start shaking, and then he sits up straight, laughing quietly and shaking his head like he thinks the world’s gone mad. “I’m best friends with a lunatic!” he whispers wonderingly. “I can’t believe it. How did I not realise this before?”

“Excuse you, I am not a lunatic. And even if I was, what does that make you, for being friends with me?” Zena asks scathingly.

Magnus raises his eyes to the ceiling like he’s praying for something. No doubt either mercy and patience would be equally appreciated.

* * *

“Soooo,” Zena drawls, sprawling across the length of Magnus’ bed and ignoring the scowl he shoots at her. “What would be the best way to get in contact with someone you suspect has commited murder?”

“You don’t,” he replies flatly.

“But if you’re a lunatic - your words, not mine - how would you go about it?”

“You could try writing a letter,” he grumbles. “But don’t accuse him of murder in the letter. Otherwise, he might try to kill you if he even agrees to meet with you in the first place.”

“You’re so smart, Mag,” Zena tells him. “I’ll write the letter, and you can proofread it. Then we’ll send it to him and wait.”

“This is a terrible idea.” He looks at her. “Are you sure I can’t talk you out of it?”

“Can you confirm our suspicions another way?” she asks archly.

“No,” he frowns. “Fine. You write the damn thing, and I’ll edit it.

* * *

_Mr Warrington,_

_I’m not certain if you remember 31 December, 2004, but I do. It was dark outside; there was snow lining the streets; the ground was wet. I was wearing a red coat, and when you bumped into me, you were wearing what I now know was a Slytherin scarf. I recognised you almost right away. I knew your name, and I knew other things about you; I was convinced that we’d known each other for five years already, though I was only seven at the time. I remember that you had no idea who I was, and you left almost immediately after apologising for not watching where you were going._

_The reason I’m writing to you now is that I have been reliably informed that I am a reincarnated soul. I want to know if you can help me figure this out; after all, you are the first person, place, or thing that I remembered._

_If you are able to find the time, I would like to speak with you about our shared past. I am available to meet at Hogwarts or Hogsmeade on any weekend that fits your schedule. Whether or not you are able to find time to meet, I would appreciate continued correspondence with you._

_Sincerely,  
_ _Zena Sinclair_

* * *

_Miss Sinclair,_

_I must admit that it is a surprise to hear from you._

_Now that you mention that night, I do have a vague recollection of it, though I will be the first to admit that I am oblivious enough that - while I do not make a habit of it - bumping into small children in Muggle London is an unfortunately common occurrence. However, I suppose that bumping into you is certainly more memorable than all the rest; after all, none of those other poor children I’ve unintentionally body slammed ever called me by my name without my introducing myself._

_If you wish, I have a day off within the next fortnight; we can meet then at a venue of your choosing._

_Sincerely,  
_ _Cassius Warrington_

* * *

_Mr Warrington,_

_Thank you for your time. How does a Saturday sound? Perhaps we might meet at Three Broomsticks at around one o’ clock in the afternoon?_

_Sincerely,  
_ _Zena Sinclair_

* * *

_Miss Sinclair,_

_I will see you at the Three Broomsticks at one o’ clock this coming Saturday._

_Cassius Warrington_

* * *

“I don’t like this,” Magnus tells her, biting his lip anxiously.

“Everything will be fine. We’re meeting in a public place, so even if he does get angry, he wouldn’t dare do anything to me. Even Pure-bloods can’t get away with murder in broad daylight.”

“They used to be able to,” he mutters petulantly.

“Yeah, back in the year nine-hundred, maybe,” she snorts. “I’ll be fine, Mag. Besides, you’ll be at the next table over, so if anything _does_ happen - which it won’t - you’ll be able to deal with it in whatever way you see fit.”

Magnus expels a put-upon sigh. “I’m just worried about you, Zeen. You’re acting like a Gryffindor right now.”

“Well,” Zena tells him, _“she_ was a Gryffindor, once upon a time. This wise man once said that she and I have the same soul, and we share her memories. Why shouldn’t I act a little bit Gryffindor every now and then?”

“I hate it when you use my words against me,” Magnus says sulkily.

“Well maybe you should just stop talking so you aren’t giving me ammunition, then,” she teases. He doesn’t smile. “Magnus.” She takes his hand and holds it between her own. “Everything will be okay. You don’t need to worry so much, alright?”

He takes a shaky breath. “Okay.”

* * *

“Miss Sinclair?” a familiar voice asks. 

Zena stands up from her bench to face Cassius Warrington. He doesn’t look as though he’s aged a day since she saw him that New Years Eve. She extends her hand, and when he shakes it, his palm is dry and warm, and his fingers are a comfortable weight against the dorsal side where they brush just beneath her knuckles.

“Please, Mr Warrington, call me Zena. I’m not used to all this formal drudgery.”

He gives her an amused smile. “Etiquette is hardly difficult work.”

“It is if you only grow up with the most basic manners required,” she disagrees.

“And what might those be?”

“Please and thank you. Eye contact when someone’s speaking to you. No gossiping. Shaking hands upon meeting someone.”

Cassius laughs. “Well, Zena, since formality is so offensive to your delicate sensibilities, you may call me Cassius.”

“That’s good,” Zena nods. “I already thought of you as Cassius, and I’d’ve been bound to slip up at some point.”

“I like you,” he tells her. “Now, would you like anything to eat or drink?”

“Oh, I’ve already ordered something. If you’d like something, though, feel free to order whatever. My treat.”

Cassius looks offended. “I can’t let you do that.”

“It’s got nothing to do with _letting_ me do anything. I insist on paying for your food and drink. It’s the least I can do; after all, you’re spending a day off _here,_ of all places, and it only seems fair that I pay, given that I plan on asking you some rather uncomfortable questions soon enough.”

“You’re quite blunt, aren’t you? Very well. I’ll accept your offer, but you must let me pay you back in some way.”

Zena gives him a scrutinizing look. “I wouldn’t worry about repayment, Cassius. I’ve got everything all sorted out.”

Cassius eyes her suspiciously; no doubt he can tell that there’s a double meaning underlying her words, but she is fairly certain that he doesn’t know what it is quite yet.

They speak about mundane things while waiting for their food to arrive, and Cassius sips sedately at his Firewhisky, seeming to really enjoy it, though Zena has heard that in the grand scheme of whiskys, there are others that are far more enjoyable. She says as much to Cassius, who shrugs delicately and says: “That’s true enough, but those other whiskys don’t allow you to breathe fire,” before exhaling a ring of fire through the circle of his mouth.

She waits until Cassius seems relaxed to say anything, and she looks over to catch Magnus’ eye before she does; she doesn’t want him to be caught off guard, just in case anything happens. “I mentioned in my letter that I wanted to speak about our shared past. Unfortunately, I don’t think you’ll really enjoy the direction of our conversation.”

Cassius sighs heavily and leans back in his seat. “You forget that I was a Slytherin when I went to Hogwarts. I can read between the lines. I’ve had some suspicions about where this conversation’s going to go.”

Zena inspects him closely; he doesn’t look relaxed, but neither does he look as though he’s about to run. “I wanted to talk about Haven Potter.”

He smiles sadly. “You mean you want to know if I killed her.”

She nods.

Cassius sighs again and leans forward to place his forearms on the table. “I loved Haven. She was almost like a sister to me; they all were, though. She had a way with people, you know? She collected them, enticed them, drew them in like a Siren, but when she caught them she didn’t kill them. She loved them, and they loved her.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Zena observes gently.

“I’m getting there.” He looks down at his hands and laces his fingers together. “I had an older brother, you know.”

“Lazarus Warrington,” Zena agrees.

“Lazarus,” he nods; his voice is heavy, his words syrupy and slow, like they’re drowning in grief. “Our parents died during the first war. They were Death Eaters, and they were killed in the same confrontation that Fabian and Gideon Prewett died in. I was around five at the time, and Lazarus had just taken his OWLs. He raised me; he was my brother and my father. 

“He took his NEWTs the year I started Hogwarts, and he went out and got himself a job, and no matter how busy he was, he always made time for me. He joined the Death Eaters when Voldemort came back, but he never tried to get me to join up with him. He was at Hogwarts for the final battle. A lot of people died, and many of them were my friends or had been my friends at one point, but the death that hit me the hardest was Laz’s. 

“I didn’t know at the time, but it was Haven who killed him. I know she didn’t do it on purpose; he was just another casualty of war. That’s the way war works, you know: you fight, and you either make it out alive and broken or you die. I know that. I knew it then, too, but somehow it’s so much harder to accept when it’s someone you love who’s been killed, and it’s harder when it’s someone you love who’s killed them.

“So I found out it was Haven. I don’t even remember how I figured it out, but when I did, I was so _furious_ that I just went to her house. I was only going to talk to her, but when I saw her, she was just sitting there, reading a book, and. And, well, I didn’t get a chance to say anything because at that moment I hated her enough to kill her.”

“Don’t you regret it?” Zena wonders.

“Of course I do!” Cassius hisses, swiping viciously at the dampness beneath his eyes. “I loved her and I _killed_ her! Of course I regret it.” He takes a deep breath, and says, his voice sluggish with sorrow and exhaustion: “How could I not?”

“Why didn’t you ever come forward and admit to it?”

Cassius’ laugh comes out slightly hysterically. “Because I’m a coward. Because no one ever asked. Because my turning myself in doesn’t bring her back. Because I regret it, and living with the regret feels like more of a punishment than the Kiss could ever be, and I deserve to be punished. Take your pick; they’re all true.”

“Don’t you think she deserves justice?”

“She deserves to be alive,” he says harshly.

“That’s not possible. I’m the next best thing, Cassius. I share her soul. I can access her memories. I remember her dying, and she died while she was grieving, Cass. Don’t you think she deserves some peace?”

Cassius stands up and buttons his coat. “You’re right. She does deserve peace.” He turns and walks away, and Zena can only watch as the door to the Three Broomsticks shuts him out.

“So did he do it?” Magnus asks, sliding into the place Cassius had been sitting.

“Yeah,” Zena says.

“And you just let him _go?”_

“Yeah.”

_“Why?”_

* * *

**_Cassius Warrington Turns Himself in for the Murder of Haven Potter!_ **

_Yesterday, war hero Cassius Warrington turned up at the Ministry for Magic claiming that he was responsible for the death and disappearance of Haven Potter - the Safe Haven - back in 1997. He has willingly submitted himself to investigation and a trial under Veritaserum. Court proceedings will begin within the week… cont. page 13_

* * *

**_Cassius Warrington Pleads Guilty!_ **

_In a preliminary trial yesterday evening, Cassius Warrington, who has claimed responsibility for the death of Haven Potter, pleaded guilty for second degree murder… cont. page 3_

* * *

**_Cassius Warrington Convicted!_ **

_The Wizengamot has declared that Cassius Warrington, the alleged murderer of Haven Potter, has been given a life sentence in Azkaban. Warrington claims that this punishment is “No less than I deserve”... cont. page 7_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank the lord that this is the last chapter, I was getting tired of this story, but I didn't want to leave it unfinished. Hopefully it was enjoyable (or at least amusing enough to keep you until the end), and thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> So this is really a Harry Potter x Transcend fusion. I hesitate to say crossover because none of the characters from Transcend are in this.
> 
> I had this idea while I was attempting to read Transcend (if any of you like stories about reincarnation, love triangles, and potential infidelity - I never actually finished the book, so I don't know for sure - then I recommend Transcend). It's by Jewel E Ann. I hated the story because I have issues with cheating, and no patience for love triangles, but it did give me this idea.


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